


Aftermath: A Series of Consulted Shorts

by nightmares06, The_Raconteur_24601



Series: Brothers Consulted [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural, The Borrowers - All Media Types
Genre: 221B Baker Street, G/T, Gen, Tiny Dean, Tiny Winchesters, Tiny sam, giant tiny - Freeform, pocket dean, pocket sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2020-09-01 01:56:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20250277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmares06/pseuds/nightmares06, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Raconteur_24601/pseuds/The_Raconteur_24601
Summary: Sam has been rescued and 221B Baker Street has never had more visitors. The Winchesters and the Baker Street boys now have to deal with the aftermath of that harrowing day.





	1. Keeping a Promise

“Dean?”  
  
Dean groaned, shifting sleepily in his nest of fabric. One hand groped blindly for a cover, his arms prickling with goosebumps in the early morning chill of the flat. Taking off his jacket before bed made him vulnerable to the cold that seeped into the walls when the fire in the fireplace died down.  
  
“Dean!”  
  
This time, the light voice by his side made him sit bolt upright, trying to blink the sand from his eyes so he could see in the dimly-lit interior of the walls. Staying up late the night before had left him groggy and unable to focus so early in the morning, the darkness all around trying to pull him back to sleep.  
  
Dean looked around the dark room he shared with Sam. His little brother remained out cold, lying on his side to keep the weight off the tender brand on his back while also keeping his injured leg stretched out. The fragile limb would heal, but it needed time and Dean fully intended to _give_ Sam that time. It didn’t look like he’d moved since Dean had sunk into his covers the night before, and that was for the best. Running around the day before with giants and taking care of a house full of rescued captives took all of his energy, leaving little for himself.   
  
Speaking of captives, when Dean turned the other way he found the source of the voice.   
  
Kara.  
  
Eight years old and barely two inches tall, the girl was scrawny for her age. The only sign she was recovering from her trials was the healthy flush across her cheeks and the optimistic look in her eyes, her spirit unbroken by Euan and the professor's treatment of the little people.  
  
“You _finally_ woke up!” Kara declared triumphantly, her voice a hush despite the exclamation, acclimated to quiet from years of living in the walls out of sight of humans in her own motel. There was an ache in Dean’s heart to realize he’d been cursed longer than she’d been _alive._  
  
Even so, Dean held a finger to his mouth to indicate quiet. Sam needed the rest more than anyone else, and he didn’t want Sam disturbed. Kara settled down, her grey eyes bright as she fidgeted in place.  
  
“Okay,” Dean whispered. “Is everything alright?”  
  
Kara bobbed her head, following Dean’s example for quiet. “Daddy’s sleeping and he told me to go back to bed, but I couldn’t _wait_ to get up!” She shyly cast her eyes down at her hands. “Since daddy’s asleep and I’m not ‘upposed to wake uncle Mikael, I was hoping _you_ could help me make a new hook. Those mean people threw mine in the trash with the supply bag daddy made.” There was no denying the hope that shone in her when she looked back up at Dean.  
  
Dean’s sleep-deprived mind struggled to keep up, vaguely remembering his promise the day before to help her find a new hook. Even without that, he could never turn away someone who, after losing everything but her father and uncle, still had such optimism in life. “Ah.” Giving up on sleep, at least for the time being, he shoved what remained of his fabric scraps from his lap, pushing himself to his feet.  
  
Stretching his arms over his head, Dean felt his back crack with a satisfying _pop!_ Kara giggled, then took the hand he offered, following his lead as he tiptoed out of the room. “C’mon, munchkin, let’s go get you some gear.”  
  
The main room of Sam and Dean’s home was silent. Dean stood Kara by the table, leaving her bouncing on her heels while he splashed a drop of water on his face from the bottle cap he’d filled the night before, trying to wipe away his sluggishness. It worked like a charm, leaving Dean awake to face the morning. He attempted to straighten his crooked spike of hair with another drop of water and only partially succeeded, the short strands resisting his coaxing.  
  
The other liberated captives remained fast asleep in the main room. Moira was curled up in her own nest of fabric not far from the table where Dean and Kara stood, near Bree. Soon, she would have to return to her home to let her parents know she was safe, and likely drop the bomb about the captives, not to mention Sam and Dean’s involvement with the humans in the flat. The trip was long, but not overly hazardous, and Dean would be sure to see her off if he didn’t have the time to accompany her back.  
  
Mikael and Christian remained in the same places from the night before, looking like they hadn’t budged an inch since Dean dragged himself to bed, and Anita and Mark were curled protectively toward each other with their foreheads touching, reunited at last after such a long separation.  
  
Grabbing clean pants and another black shirt, Dean ducked quickly back into the room he shared with Sam and changed. Shrugging into his leather jacket for warmth, he declared himself ready, snagging his duffel bag on his way back to Kara.  
  
Kara excitedly took his hand again as he passed by her, and he cautiously led her around the peacefully sleeping forms, hoping to leave them all asleep to gain back their energy and begin to recover from their prolonged suffering. They were all snuggled close for warmth in the shredded remains of John’s shirt. Assistance like that was something Dean would normally refuse from his… flatmates, but they needed the fabric for bedding _now_. Without John’s help, all they would have to offer the others to sleep on was Dean’s small nest.  
  
Dean had to sweep Kara off her feet to avoid Mikael, carrying the giggling little girl in his arms to the main exit from the home. The supplies Dean needed to help Kara make her own hook waited for them in the supply room placed next to Sherlock’s chair, but Dean had a stop to make first, for his own peace of mind.  
  


* * *

  
The bookshelf looked better with the old tomes back in place, Dean determined when they got out there, finally seeing it again in the light. Less… open. Wide spaces like that made him feel naked and exposed.  
  
The wood paneling beneath their small feet was smooth and dust-free, swept clean from Sherlock removing the books the day before.  
  
Kara’s eyes were wide at her first _real_ look at the flat beyond. There had been no time for sightseeing the night before when they arrived at Dean and Sam’s place. “This is your home?!” she squeaked in awe, her eyes briefly pausing on John’s armchair, where the kind human doctor had gone to sleep the night before, head supported by a Union Jack pillow and lolled toward the bookshelf.  
  
Dean grinned as he knelt down next to her, ruffling her light brown curls into a mess. “You bet,” he said, sweeping an arm out to put the whole of the room on display. The desk covered in scattered newspapers and scrawled notes, the violin next to Sherlock’s armchair, the smiley-face painted on the wall with bullet holes dotting the yellow paint (one of Dean’s personal favorite vantage points for spying on the humans, back before they’d befriended them).  
  
Out of sight from their place on the shelf, the vials and beakers scattered throughout the kitchen, some with experiments Sherlock was working on inside them, the fridge likely filled with more. Kara would never have anything to fear from those jars.  
  
“Home sweet home,” Dean said, suddenly surprised to hear those words from his mouth. He had a home, and a place where he belonged. It wasn’t quite what he envisioned when growing up in the Impala, but it was _his_ life. Even the sight of John’s slumped figure, as gigantic as a building and with steady breaths that Dean could hear from where they sat, was welcome. They had people they could count on, at both sizes.  
  
“And the humans _really_ don’t mind?” she whispered, her eyes wide as she watched John shift sleepily, brow slightly pinched.  
  
“Not these two,” Dean promised, knowing in his heart, after all they’d gone through together, it was true. “You’ll never have to be afraid of John or Sherlock.”  
  
With a sniff, John's eyes squinted open. From his armchair, even hushed voices from the smaller folk had slowly tugged him out of his light slumber. It was the entire reason he'd gone to sleep there, so he could be easily reached by any of the people crashing in Sam and Dean's home behind the bookshelf.  
  
John gave a light groan, feeling a kink in his neck coming on as he lifted his head a bit to blink the blurriness from his eyes and focus on the figures standing by the books.  
  
"Hey," he whispered as he rubbed at his eyes. He glanced at his watch, then offered a tired but warm smile when he saw the small frame next to Dean. "Bit early to be up. Everything okay?"  
  
He kept his tone light and conversational, not wanting either of them to feel put on the spot. John wasn't interrogating them, just checking up in case they needed something.  
  
“Dean’s gonna get me a new hook!” Kara declared, bouncing on her heels as she gripped the side of Dean’s pant legs.  
  
Dean gently extricated her fingers from the fabric and had her stand in front of him so he could keep his hands on her shoulders. The only reason he was doing better than John with sleep was because he’d washed his face before coming out, otherwise his nest back in the hidden home was a heavy draw. Out of everyone in the flat, Dean had been up the latest, and now was awake the earliest. If he smelled even a _drop_ of coffee coming from the kitchen, he’d make a beeline for it.  
  
“Gotta get you back on your feet and climbing, right kiddo?” Dean asked with a grin, keeping his exhaustion to himself.  
  
She craned her neck back and looked up at him with an excited nod. “Then I can show you how good I am!” she told John.  
  
"I look forward to it." John's smile widened, feeling a bit more alert as though Kara were sharing her enthusiastic energy with him. He hadn't had much time to spend with any of the people he and Sherlock rescued from that horrible place Sam had been taken to, but Kara and her spirited attitude certainly stood out in his memory.  
  
"Be sure to come and find me once you're ready for that," he added, realigning his back and settling back down in his chair. Not only was John curious to see the child's climbing skills, but he also would prefer to be around when she started doing this around the flat. He and Sherlock (mostly the latter) kept a great many things lying about, and John wanted to be sure she wouldn't get into anything too hazardous. Not like there was ever an occasion to child-proof the flat before, let alone for a child pushing a handful of centimeters in height. "I'm usually around."  
  
“Okay!” she chirped, her light brown curls bouncing with her excitement. “Once I’ve got my thread _allll_ ready I’ll look for you.”  
  
“Once your dad is ready too,” Dean cautioned, visions of a tiny child climbing around and getting in trouble into John and Sherlock’s stuff dancing in his head. John wasn’t the only one who saw that as a recipe for disaster considering the state of the flat and the continuous experiments Sherlock had going on. Dean knew all too well how dangerous humans could be by accident. Sam had once almost been plucked up by John right out of a jacket pocket without John ever knowing both brothers were near.  
  
“Say goodbye for now,” Dean encouraged Kara with a knowing grin, squeezing her shoulder.  
  
“Bye sir!” Kara waved.  
  
“Bye _John,_” Dean corrected, one of the few times he’d ever called the kindly doctor by his name instead of a companionable nickname.  
  
“Bye John!”  
  
John gave a small wave back, lifting his fingers from the arm of the chair and letting them drop back down. "See ya round, Kara," he replied.  
  
Then to Dean he nodded, understanding that the smaller man had a rough night and an early start. He hoped that, once Kara quite literally let him off the hook, that Dean would be allowed a few more hours to catch up on sleep.  
  
"Good morning," he bade as they turned to go, biting back a yawn.  
  
Dean gave John a cocky salute, holding out a hand for Kara. She took it, her skinny fingers wrapping around just two of his. She skipped along at his side, her quick paces keeping up with his longer strides.  
  
“I’m gonna show Uncle Mikael and daddy as soon as they get up!” she chattered on excitedly as they reached the books. “They’ll have to get climbing supplies too!”  
  
Darkness fell over them and Dean let Kara take the lead. “Just take a right when you get to the back,” he cautioned her. “That way leads to our supply room instead of our home…”  
  
His voice trailed off into silence as they slipped into the walls, leaving John alone in the living room.  
  
The doctor sighed, glad to know that all the awful recent circumstances hadn't discouraged little Kara in the slightest. John had nearly forgotten how _small_ she was, almost half Dean's height. It was lucky she seemed attached to the elder Winchester; he knew the flat and he knew the humans, and if anyone could assure these newcomers that they were safe, barring a badly injured Sam, it was Dean.  
  
Still, John couldn't help but think about how much responsibility that put on Dean. He had no doubt the little fella could handle it. He'd jumped into a leadership role fairly quickly the night before, even asking John for help with providing them all with a place to sleep.   
  
But that was just it, no one could be prepared to suddenly go from feeding, watering, and sheltering two people to _nine_. John recalled how much food Dean had been fetching when he and Sherlock interrupted him hours ago, and as much as Dean hid it from Kara, John could see the toll all that work was taking on him.  
  
John turned all this over in his mind, shooting a brief glance over his shoulder at the kitchen before relaxing into his chair and the Union Jack pillow to hopefully snag an extra hour or two of sleep.

[Artwork by @mogadeer](https://mogadeer.tumblr.com/)


	2. Distractions (1 of 4)

Contrary to his promise to Kara, John was long gone by the time Sherlock rolled out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. According to the note the detective found on the morning tray of tea and biscuits that was always sure to appear on the table, his flatmate had gone on a quick grocery run. Not too long ago, if the warmth of the teapot was any indication.  
  
Nibbling at a biscuit, Sherlock squinted blankly at nothing as he recalled the events of the night before. So much happened, and so much was revealed. The latter centered mostly around Dean, who introduced himself to Sherlock's brother Mycroft and one of the elder Holmes' underlings, and subsequently brought up a rather unsavory concept for the detective.  
  
Reminded, Sherlock glanced at his work table where he'd left Dean's small sample in a plastic envelope. Sulfur, his small companion called it, left behind by a demon after it burned three people to death.  
  
The thought brought on an exasperated sigh, and he angrily chewed through the rest of his biscuit while mulling it over. On some level, Sherlock wanted to hear Dean out. He trusted Dean as a partner and knew he could rely on his judgment, but the issue of the existence of _demons_ was not one he was inclined to have on his own. No matter how much Sherlock tried to contain himself, reflex demanded he dismiss such ideas without John to keep him grounded, to shut him up when he needed to be.  
  
In the two minutes he'd been awake, Sherlock hadn't seen or heard a trace from any of the smaller folk, much less Dean, so he decided to take the opportunity to kill time. He grabbed the sulfur and set his microscope up on a cleared space on the kitchen table, then set about gathering the necessary materials for a few small experiments. He knew the properties of sulfur well enough to be able to predict the results.  
  
Perhaps it was childish to attempt to delay the inevitable, but Sherlock was bored and frankly couldn't care less.  
  


* * *

  
As the morning marched on for the quiet flat, one particular new resident grew bored. All the adults in Sam and Dean’s small home remained passed out long after the sun had risen, leaving Kara to amuse herself.  
  
After finding the perfectly sized paperclip for Kara in his stash nestled close to Sherlock’s bookcase, Dean had only stayed awake long enough to twist it into shape for her. Kara watched with wide, excited eyes as her new hook took form in front of her, the smooth metal catching the small bits of light that made it in the hideaway from the main flat. Dean also gave her some black thread, enough for her to be able to toss the hook onto the furniture just like she used to be able to.  
  
For a time, Kara sat at the makeshift table in Dean’s home, idly winding the thread up so she could put it over her arm. Once Moira was awake, Dean had said she might have a small bag Kara could use until she got her own. Any bags Sam or Dean owned were too big for the thin little eight-year-old, but their sister’s would be _perfect._  
  
A groan came from the side, and Kara bounced eagerly for a moment as she saw the fabric covering her father start to shift, Christian lazily stretching out.  
  
Then he settled back into the grey fabric nest and his breathing evened out again.  
  
Kara let out a frustrated sigh. After so long spent without _any_ climbing supplies, now that she finally had them, she couldn't _use_ them! It just figured.  
  
Stepping quietly over Moira, Kara peeked into Dean’s room. After helping her out, the elder Winchester had only kept his eyes open long enough to be sure there was enough food on the table for when the others woke up, then collapsed face-first into his nest of fabric, almost snoring before he hit the ground. Kara giggled at the memory. Her dad was like that some days, and she always ended up spending time with Uncle Mikael while he slept.  
  
“Dean?” she whispered furtively, glancing to the side to be sure she wasn’t going to wake up Sam. That was a big no-no, and she didn’t want to let anyone down, especially not after Dean got her the hook.  
  
“Mmm?” came a sleepy mumble from the nest where Dean was buried.  
  
“Can I go climbing?” Kara asked, her whisper an excited breath.  
  
“Juss…” Twin green eyes peeked out at Kara. “Only if someone watches you,” he finished, closing his eyes and laying back down. “No goin’ alone.”  
  
Kara pursed her lips, thwarted again as Dean went back to sleep.  
  
Maybe John was out there now that she was ready to show him her skills.  
  


* * *

  
Kara’s hopes didn’t pan out with the good doctor out of the flat for a grocery run. John’s armchair was abandoned, the only sign of his presence the indentations in the cushion caused by his weight. Kara would never be able to make an impression on the chair like that.  
  
Humans were _big._  
  
While she was standing on the bookshelf, disappointed she’d have to wait to try out her new hook, she caught a sound from the kitchen, where John had given her that healing gel that took the heat from her burn. She smiled at the memory, glad that they’d found _nice_ humans this time. All the bad stories her dad had told her had come true, but something Christian had never imagined had come true as well-- humans that _cared._ Like a scene from a fairy tale Kara had overheard a human mother telling her daughter.  
  
Sherlock was in the kitchen, working at a device Kara had never seen before. She wondered at its size, large enough to tower over even _Sam_ if he was standing straight, and marveled that humans could use such things with ease. Maybe Sherlock would like to see her climbing.  
  
Distracted from Dean’s rule about no climbing while unsupervised, Kara busied herself finding a place to hook the edge of the bookshelf so she could climb down and show off her new supplies to Sherlock.  
  


* * *

  
After carefully prying open the tiny tinfoil package with tweezers, Sherlock divided the sulfur evenly between three empty disposable petri dishes, one to be the control and the other two to test. There was just barely enough sulfur to form miniscule piles in the center of each dish, but as Sherlock had promised Dean the night before, it would be sufficient for small tests.  
  
Not as time-consuming as he'd originally thought, but he would make do.  
  
With the first dish, he took a butane lighter and grazed the flame over the sample three times. Immediately the smell of rotten eggs permeated the kitchen, which Sherlock did his best to ignore. Once that aired out, Sherlock took a good long look under the microscope to see if the crystals had cracked as expected, comparing those to the control dish. Afterward, Sherlock exposed that sample to the flame a little longer, causing the sulfur to catch fire and melt. The yellowish substance sparked with blue flame and gave off another burst of odor, and of course this result was closely examined after it had cooled.  
  
Next, Sherlock took the remaining sample and preset it under the microscope, focusing all his attention on carefully squeezing drop after drop of warm water from the teapot next to him through an eyedropper onto the sulfur to watch the crystals dissolve. He waited until the process had stopped after each drop, though given the size of the sample it wouldn't take long at all before it was all gone.  
  
As focused as Sherlock was on his experiments, he didn’t realize he had a visitor. Kara, after a quick dash across the floor and a climb up the towering sides of the kitchen table, had arrived to scout out what Sherlock was up to and show him her new hook.   
  
Light and quick footsteps heralded her arrival, and she waved her hand to try and dispel the odd smell that was in the air. She was fascinated by her surroundings, strange objects towering overhead that she’d never seen before in her home motel, and certainly never while she was in the cage. The most scenery in that place was the trip to see the professor, and that room always made her shudder to remember.  
  
A teapot that could be a swimming pool sat in the distance, an odd bit of color among Sherlock’s equipment. The microscope loomed the most, and Kara had no experience with such things to know what it was or what it did, but Sherlock certainly was fascinated as he looked into it. What caught her eye was the tweezers she stood near, a bright metal that reflected the overhead light back at her. She nudged them with a foot, impressed at the length. Each side was longer than she was tall, and she might be able to walk across the metal like a balance beam.  
  
“Whatcha doing?” Kara asked Sherlock, her grey eyes bright as she looked from the tweezers to the human.  
  
Sherlock blinked and he drew back from the microscope to lock eyes with the two-inch-tall child staring back at him. He frowned, glancing around the rest of the table to ensure she was alone. Obviously he had a tendency to get sucked into his work on occasion, but he thought he'd at least be able to notice someone approaching as closely as Kara.  
  
"How'd you get there?" Sherlock shot back rather than answering her question. It bothered him that until she piped up he hadn't sensed the girl.  
  
“I _climbed!_” Kara said with a laugh at such a silly question from the human. “How else could I get up here?” Sometimes she wondered what went through humans’ heads. They said such funny things.  
  
She let the coils of thread slip down her arm and brandished the hook for him to see. Black thread pooled at her feet. Not completely sure he could see from all the way up in the air, Kara hoisted it proudly above her head. She could feel there was something about Sherlock that was different than all the other humans she’d met, and John too. They made her feel secure, and didn’t look down their nose at her like she was just a pest. Not to mention how Sherlock had saved her and her family, putting them safely in his pocket until they were far, far away from the professor.  
  
“Dean promised he’d make me a hook, and he did! Since… the bad people took mine away. They threw out all our stuff.” She poked the tip of the hook into her palm. “Dean said Moira might have a new bag for me, so I haveta wait until she can go get it, but at least I can climb now! It’s been _forever_. I don’t know how you humans _live_without any climbing. It’s so fun!”  
  
Sherlock arched an eyebrow as the child presented that bent paper clip attached to a dark cord, not so dissimilar from the fishhooks Sam and Dean used to get around the flat from time to time. The main difference was, of course, the choice of grapple; far less sturdy than the hooks he'd seen, but he supposed that hardly mattered given how little the girl must weigh. At two inches in height and much slimmer than any of Sherlock's fingers, it really was no wonder that she mastered the art of silence.  
  
"Yes, well, humans have a tendency to alter the world around them to make life just a little easier. Always new houses to build, staircases, escalators and elevators. Everything's built to suit us specifically so we _don't_ have to climb." As he spoke, Sherlock swapped the spent water sample under his microscope for the control dish for one last long look at the unaltered sulfur. He switched to a stronger magnification, readjusted the focus, and peered intently at the crystals, determined not to let Kara's visit distract him from his distraction.  
  
Kara pursed her lips as she thought that over. “That doesn’t sound like much fun,” she decided, remembering how she and her dad had explored unknown parts of the motel. Places never before seen by any of the people that lived there, back in the days before they were stolen away. There was always something new and exciting, and changing things around to suit them less so. It wouldn’t be as much of an adventure.  
  
“ ‘Sides,” Kara said as she thought it over, “we can’t all-ter things like humans can,” she stumbled over the new word, “people would notice, and then we’d get caught _more._”  
  
All these new thoughts had Kara’s mind racing with different questions, and she couldn’t waste the chance of having a willing human nearby for answers. Her father did his best, but humans were impossible to understand and did so many things that were incomprehensible to the smaller folk.  
  
“Why’re you so _big?_” Kara asked, pure innocence as she looked up at Sherlock.  
  
"Because my DNA said I would be, therefore I am," Sherlock muttered while he reached across the table for a probe and began poking at the tiny sample to break down the larger chunks of crystal. His answer was reflexive and overly simple, a part of him hoping that she would eventually run out of questions if he kept replying.  
  
“DNA?” Kara repeated, wrinkling her nose at more strange words from the strange human. Hidden away in a motel, Kara and her family had no exposure to high school or college students, even if she was inclined to look in on them while they were studying. It was better to keep far away from humans like that, though Sherlock and John were an exception now after what they’d done.  
  
She wandered closer to where he steadily worked, wanting to know more, especially while he was in the mood to answer questions. “Is that like your mom and dad telling you things? Do you have to do what it says or can you be small like me?”  
  
"No, it doesn't actually _say_ anything, and it doesn't work like that." The detective sighed as he rotated and shifted the sample under the lens, deciding that perhaps he'd simplified too much.  
  
He elucidated, "Deoxyribonucleic acid is a molecule, an invisibly tiny structure made of chemicals that acts like an instruction manual for living organisms. These instructions tell your cells what you're meant to look like, how your body is meant to function, and how tall you are meant to grow. You and I have no choice in the matter, Katherine, it is simply a fact of existence."  
  
“It’s _Kara,_” she corrected instinctively, not expecting such an odd name from Sherlock. “Not Katherine.”  
  
That aside, she mulled over his answer. She was too young to completely understand what he’d said, and she couldn’t quite remember the full name for DNA, but some parts made sense. She held out a hand, flexing her fingers. “So… _DNA_ made me look like this? And it made you look like you and Daddy like Daddy. We’re small ‘cause it says so.”  
  
Which brought to mind more questions. “If it’s invisible, how do you know? I can’t see it, and you’re even _bigger!_”  
  
Sherlock glanced back at Kara, surprised that she was still going on and frankly growing bored of seeing the same crystals over and over. He knew all too well that he was indeed looking at sulfur, there was nothing left to be found. The little girl was learning far more from Sherlock's mutterings than he was from the samples.  
  
"I know because I studied DNA for a very long time, and now I work with it on a regular basis," he explained as he set aside the probe. "It can only be seen through microscopes like this-- well, not _exactly_ like this, you'd need a far more powerful one to see anything like DNA, but I digress. It lets me see things much more closely than I would normally be able to."  
  
While Sherlock spoke, he gathered the dishes into a pile and reached past Kara to drop them into a waste bucket. He could find some other way to pass the time while he waited for John to return. He just needed to think.  
  
Kara had other plans entirely. She forgot her questions when Sherlock reached past her, still enamored at the sight of one of the humans moving so close by where she stood and yet feeling no fear of him. Fascinated at the sight of such a large hand, as Sherlock was pulling away, Kara snagged a hand on one of his fingers, using the crevices and cracks in his skin.  
  
The skin wasn’t as good for climbing on as a bedcover would be, but Kara had no problem pulling herself up and scrambling onto the finger. She held out her arms, walking along towards Sherlock’s knuckles like she was on a balance beam, her innate sense of balance keeping her steady and smooth.  
  
That was the last thing Sherlock expected from the small child, and he stared in shock as she crossed his finger with ease. Her tiny feet hardly made an impression on his skin, and he could only feel her steps if he concentrated.  
  
For a moment he simply watched her, arm stuck half-outstretched to avoid throwing Kara off, dumbfounded by her behavior. He'd expected to get up, find something else to do with his time, and likely continue to answer the seemingly bottomless pit of questions the girl harbored. This was one option the detective did not foresee.  
  
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked at last, his tone too confused to be the sharp demand he'd intended.  
  
“Lookin!’ " Kara sang out as she placed one foot in front of the other, then hopped over Sherlock’s knuckles. “You’re the first nice human I met, why _wouldn’t_ I look?”  
  
Rhetorical question aside, Kara was quickly too fascinated to keep talking, staring down at the surface under her feet. Even through the soles of her small boots she could feel the warmth emanating from Sherlock’s hand. It took away the chill that clung to the air in the flat. Kara didn’t have a jacket like Sam and Dean did to protect her from the cold, mostly because hers was tossed out along with her bag and hook after capture.  
  
The back of Sherlock’s hand was a broad platform, and she busied herself stepping carefully over the tendons so they didn’t trip her up. Kara held out her hand to compare, flexing her fingers to see how it reacted and imagining she was standing on the back of her own hand.  
  
Her curiosity was drawn again to Sherlock, only this time she inched towards his wrist. The edge of his sleeve just covered up the base of his hand, and she picked up the fabric to peer underneath.  
  
“It’s like a cave!” she called up to Sherlock.  
  
Then she slipped up the sleeve to see how far it went, vanishing from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kara + Sherlock + No supervision = Trouble
> 
> **Next:** October 30th at 9pm


	3. Distractions (2 of 4)

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully to hear Kara refer to him as _nice._ He supposed, compared to the others she'd encountered, he would certainly seem that way, though it was not a word often used to describe the detective.  
  
Unsure of what to do, he observed her as she explored his hand, more than wide enough for her to walk across without a problem. He considered plucking her up and replacing her on the table so he could go about his business, but there was something intriguing about seeing her make observations of her own. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  
  
All that flew straight out the window when she crawled under his sleeve.  
  
Sherlock's hand clenched in surprise and his entire body tensed, falling entirely still. He felt her continue up his arm, but his mind was racing so fast that the rest of him had no time to catch up.  
  
Being one of the least sociable of individuals, Sherlock wasn't particularly good with kids. Kara seemed to be an exception, mostly because the child was persistently curious and unwavering in the face of his intensity, unlike her adult caretakers and even Sam and Dean. He was wholly unprepared to deal with an absolutely minuscule child dashing up his sleeve, and nothing in his previous experience would help him now.  
  


* * *

  
“Dean.”  
  
For the third time that morning, Dean found a voice by his side, whispering his name with some urgency. The urge rose up in him to simply grab his blankets and tug them over his head, ignoring the rest of the world in favor of some much-needed sleep.  
  
Yet Dean’s deepest nature prevented him from trying, and when the second “Dean!” came, he blinked open his eyes.  
  
“Whu--"   
  
It was hard to form coherent sentences after a night without sleep and a morning nap interrupted. His voice croaked and he blearily rubbed sand from his eyes, slowly piecing together the silhouette that stood in the doorway to his and Sam’s room.  
  
Barely taller than Moira and much thinner than either brother, Christian gave off a nervous energy that set Dean’s own nerves buzzing just _looking_ at him. The other man was rubbing his hands together, wringing them out as he waited for Dean to wake up.  
  
Dean finally found the strength to push himself to a sitting position, trying to brush his hair into some semblance of order. One quick glance to the side revealed Sam peacefully resting, his leg outstretched. He hadn’t moved since Dean collapsed back in his nest after getting Kara her hook.  
  
“What’s goin’ on?” Dean asked, bringing himself into focus.  
  
“I-it’s Kara,” Christian stuttered, his nerves overflowing. “She’s missing.”  
  
That cleared up any exhaustion. Dean sprang to his feet. “Missing? Do you know where she was last?”  
  
Christian shrugged helplessly. “She asked me if we could go climbing, but I told her to go back to sleep. Things were quiet, and I must have drifted off again, and now… Mikael can’t find her in any of the nearby tunnels.”  
  
A bad feeling trickled into Dean’s mind, and he pulled Christian out of the room so they wouldn’t disturb Sam. Others were slowly waking, and Moira sat at the table eating some breakfast from what Dean brought back the night before.  
  
“I might have an idea where she is,” Dean said, remembering John’s offer to watch Kara’s climbing. “C’mon.”  
  


[Artwork by mogadeer!](https://mogadeer.tumblr.com/)

* * *

  
Dean and Christian arrived on the kitchen counter right as Kara reached the crook of Sherlock’s elbow, giggling about her explorations, but they couldn’t hear her soft voice from where they stood. Dean skidded to a halt at the edge of the counter so he could call over to Sherlock, Christian only slipping out of the walls hesitantly.  
  
“Have you seen Kara? She’s missing!”  
  
Still frozen and in a mild state of panic now that Kara was further up his sleeve and nearly impossible to retrieve without risk of hurting her, Sherlock only dared to move his eyes to meet Dean's. One of the other Americans, the girl's father, was trailing behind him.  
  
It was another moment before Sherlock responded to Dean, flummoxed as he was.  
  
"Yes, I did… see her," he answered at length, turning his focus back to his partially extended arm. "Just before she crawled up my sleeve."  
  
Dean paused, waiting for the other shoe to drop or for Sherlock to finish his joke. When it never came, exasperation bubbled out of him.  
  
“Your _sleeve? _” Dean demanded, his voice flat as he pulled his hook out by instinct and attached it to the side of the counter in one swift motion. “She went up your _sleeve._”  
  
Christian froze, and his eyes followed Sherlock and Dean’s as they all stared at the human’s sleeve where a little bump could just be made out as Kara started to climb up Sherlock’s arm.  
  
“Kara!” Christian cried out as loud as he could. “What have I told you about leaving the walls without me?”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes and gestured Christian over. “She can’t hear you,” he reminded the girl’s stressed father. “We’re too far away. How fast are you at climbing?”  
  
Christian stared at the black thread that Dean proffered. “Fast,” he said.  
  
“Good, you first.” Dean pushed the thread into Christian’s hands and patted him on the back, almost knocking the smaller and thinner man off balance before he started his climb down. Dean shortly followed, ruminating that if anything, his time around Sherlock and John was doing wonders for his climbing skills. He made use of one of Sam’s tricks, holding the thread with the sleeve of his jacket so he could slide down to the floor much faster. They needed to get over to that table, and it didn’t look like Sherlock would be able to offer them a hand.  
  
Sherlock let out a long breath as he watched the two small men approach. He could feel his tensed muscles slowly relaxing, with the exception of the arm Kara climbed on out of sight. It was difficult to feel her movements given how light she was, but Sherlock concentrated hard on the tiny crawling sensation.  
  
"Thought you two were supposed to be in charge of her," muttered Sherlock, keeping his eyes diligently on his sleeve with only a few spared glances at Dean and Christian to mark their progress.  
  
Christian flinched at the tone from Sherlock, his grey eyes wide and fearful as he craned his neck to look up at the human, but Dean was having none of Sherlock’s lip.  
  
Tugging his hook off the counter to catch it in one smooth motion, Dean rounded on the detective as he stalked towards the table. “Oh, right. I’m supposed to be watching everyone that’s staying in my house at all hours of the day, despite the way I spent most of the night out, had to stay up even _later_ because you didn’t notice you had a stowaway, and was already up _once_ this morning _already_ because Kara wanted help and everyone else was asleep.”  
  
“I was watching her,” Christian chimed in timidly, “but she’s always good at slipping away--”  
  
Dean froze him with a glare as he tossed up his hook, catching it on the top with unerring accuracy as always with a quick gesture for Christian to start climbing. As Christian started to expertly scale the thread with skill that might be equal to Sam’s, though the speed was much slower, Dean went on with his voice raised so Sherlock could hear.  
  
“Besides! How did she just get up your _sleeve?_ Did you just sit there and _watch,_ or did she sneak up on you?”  
  
Sherlock frowned at the mention of a stowaway, but he shook that off in time to roll his eyes at Dean's questions.  
  
"She grabbed onto my fingers and climbed onto the back of my hand, what would you have me do? Pluck her up and send her packing?"  
  
The detective gave another, more irate sigh, but continued in an even tone as Dean began his ascent. "In any case, I hardly expected her to do such a thing, and by the time I thought to do anything about it she was out of reach."  
  
Christian reached the top, hauling himself over the edge of the table with a huff. He stepped back nervously from Sherlock, continuing to wring his hands as Dean slowly made his way up. “S-sorry,” he managed to get out, face flushed.  
  
At the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, Kara popped out of the fabric with a grin that only broadened when she saw Christian. “Daddy, look!” she called, waving at him.  
  
“Kara get down here!” Christian called with his most commanding voice (not commanding at all), beckoning her down.  
  
“_Later!_”  
  
Dean finally made it with a grunt, rolling over the lip of the table. “Climbing, it’s always climbing,” he muttered in annoyance. “You stay here in case she comes back down, I’ll go grab her,” he told Christian as he pushed himself into a run, jumping onto the hand Sherlock continued to hold out. “And neither of you move a muscle!” he barked at Kara and Sherlock.  
  
Kara laughed, sensing the start of a new game. “Can’t catch me!” she called out, scrambling to the back of Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
Sherlock resisted the urge to turn his head to the side to look at Kara, knowing he wouldn't be able to see her anyway. His experience with Dean had taught him that much.  
  
Unlike Kara, Sherlock remained obediently still as Dean gave chase, grateful to be able to _see_ and feel the smaller man climb. He was much heavier than Kara, who continued to move out of the detective's sight, sending involuntary shivers down Sherlock's spine as she brushed the back of his neck.  
  
Kara clung to the back of Sherlock’s neck, using the little hairs that stood on end to keep from falling. “It’s like an _earth-quake! _” she said, making a face as she sounded out another unfamiliar word she’d picked up from humans. “Only it should be called a Sherlock-quake ‘cause you’re not earth!”  
  
Dean sent one last glance over his shoulder to check on Christian, spotting the other man standing nervously close to Sherlock’s frozen hand. Reassured Christian would be fine, Dean resumed his path towards Kara. Dean trusted the detective not to bother the other man. Hell, as frozen as Sherlock looked, he wasn’t going to bother _anyone_ until Dean fetched Kara down.  
  
“It’s like _my_ hair!” Kara called down, and Dean looked up in time to have his breath catch in his throat.  
  
“Be careful!” he called as he started to scale up Sherlock’s biceps, just in time to see Kara using the dark curls that were _just_ in reach for her to climb up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are absolutely throwing Dean into the mix. 
> 
> Christian might literally fall to pieces by the end of this. 
> 
> **Next:** November 3rd at 9pm
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	4. Distractions (3 of 4)

One of the last people in the flat to wake up, Sam groaned as he tried to stretch in place.  
  
That didn’t last long as the pain from his back and leg came flooding back. The groan became a moan of pain, and he settled back down, blinking blearily at the room around him.  
  
Home. He was home safe, the dark walls around him a comfort.  
  
Close by, he could see Dean’s nest of fabric. The elder Winchester was no longer there, however, and for a moment Sam’s heart jumped in his throat. The fear of being alone in the world with no one to watch his back hit him again.  
  
As Sam was locked in his panic, the sounds of the world around him began to slip through the cracks. A murmur of voices in the brothers’ main room, Moira’s laugh. Distantly, Sherlock’s deep rumble as he argued with someone Sam couldn’t make out. Either a phone call--  
  
\--Or Dean.  
  
Sam pushed himself up, eyeing his leg critically. There wasn’t much hope he’d be able to get himself up or down any of the furniture in the flat until it healed, but maybe he could use the wall to support his weight. Enough so that he could get around the house without Dean helping him out.  
  
His struggles to stand drew attention soon enough. Sam couldn’t get to his feet without putting weight on the broken leg, and he sagged back to the floor. Mikael materialized at the opening to the bedroom, his brow furrowing with concern when he saw the state Sam was in.  
  
“You shouldn’t put any weight on that _at all_ if you want to climb again,” he scolded fiercely as he came over to offer Sam a hand. “Give me a call the next time you need help.”  
  
“I was…” Sam was out of breath by the time they were standing, one arm draped over Mikael’s shoulders. It was times like this he regretted being the tallest around by far. Mikael and Dean were both too short to really support him when he walked. “I need to find Dean.”  
  
He couldn’t put to words just _why_ he needed to see his older brother. It was just a fact. Sam had spent so long the day before believing he’d lost his family for good, he needed to see him and _know_ he was okay.  
  
Mikael’s look softened. “Dean’s helping Christian find Kara. Come on, I’ll take you the way they went. I didn’t see anywhere you’d have to climb.”  
  
Halting and hesitant, the two men slowly made their way out of the small home in the walls.  
  


* * *

  
Dean finally reached Sherlock’s shoulder with a huff just as Sam and Mikael slipped out of the wall on the counter. Sam blinked when he saw Sherlock sitting there placidly, and Dean throwing his arms up in exasperation.  
  
“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” Dean groaned as he saw where Kara had got to.  
  
Sherlock finally allowed his arm to relax the second no one was climbing it, lowering it to the table with care so as to disturb the nearby man as little as possible. A flicker of movement caught his eye across the room, but the human's focus was elsewhere.  
  
He was paying close attention to the two people on his shoulders, as close as he could without looking, and it took a moment for him to figure out what Kara was doing. Light tugs on his hair and a crawling sensation at the base of his scalp that took effort to resist scratching at. Sherlock was utterly nonplussed to conclude that Kara was _climbing through his hair._  
  
The notion of reaching up to retrieve the child passed briefly through his mind, quickly written off as too much of a risk. Compared to Kara, Sherlock's curls were like a jungle. It would take some digging to find her in a blind grab, and considering the creeping feeling spreading through his nerves with every move she made and the tugs which were likely higher up than Kara's actual location, there wasn't much hope for accuracy.  
  
The most the human could achieve, in all likelihood, was knocking Kara loose. A less than desirable outcome. So Sherlock took a long, deep breath and trusted Dean to find a way to get her down.  
  
“Just… _don’t_ move,” Dean warned Sherlock severely.  
  
_I can’t believe I’m about to do this._  
  
Before he could rethink his actions, Dean stood on his tiptoes on Sherlock’s shoulder, stretching to reach the black curls that cascaded down from above. Never once had Dean ever considered climbing up _there_, yet here he was.  
  
Kara thought it was all the greatest game, squirming up to the top of Sherlock’s head. She could see the entire kitchen from up on the high perch, and waved at the distant forms of Sam and Mikael when she saw them over on the counter.   
  
Using Sherlock’s curls, Dean was able to get a good grip to climb, carefully bracing his boots against Sherlock’s neck while he climbed and tried his best to treat it like walking up a severely steep incline. The hairs were slick compared to the coarse thread the brothers used to climb, and he had to tighten his grip to avoid falling back down.  
  
Sherlock blinked in lieu of a flinch when Dean started climbing after Kara. He was much heavier than the girl, his steps more defined, and his tugs strong enough to elicit a wince every now and then. Doing his best to heed Dean's warning, Sherlock continued to breathe through it all, fighting against shudders and blinking back twitches.  
  
“Hi, Uncle Mikael! Look how high I am!”  
  
Kara's voice ringing out from the top of his head caught Sherlock off-guard, and his eyes darted around the room for the subject of her greeting. The two tiny figures on the counter caught his full attention at last, the older gentleman Kara called her uncle Mikael, and Sam. There was no mistaking the younger Winchester; his height and the way he relied heavily on the other were both dead giveaways.  
  
Deciding to ignore them for the moment like he was already doing with Christian, Sherlock focused on the fact that Kara was on top of his head. His hair wasn't nearly as thick up there as it was where Dean was currently climbing, and he considered how easy it would be to simply scoop her up from there.  
  
His eyes rolled up as he turned over this thought, trying to sense where exactly Kara stood, and unwittingly his head tilted back in the slightest millimeter or two.  
  
This movement caught Dean off guard, and left the smaller man clinging to the curls in surprise. “What did I say about movin'?" he scolded, frozen in place until he was absolutely certain Sherlock wasn’t going to knock him off. “This is hard enough already! I’d like to see _you_ climb someone’s _hair._”  
  
Taking a deep breath to steel himself and forcing any thought of how high up he was suspended in the air on a _moving_ person, Dean started to climb again.  
  
Only now, he put more effort into where his boots dug into Sherlock’s scalp.   
  
For traction.  
  
Clenching his jaw to keep himself from physically reacting to what felt like tiny kicks to the skull from Dean, Sherlock rolled his eyes without moving his head and resigned himself to being _everyone's_ jungle gym today. Why not.  
  
All he could do was breathe and move his eyes, and all he had to look at were the three smaller folk in the kitchen with him, staring back at him.  
  
And to top it all off, before long Sherlock heard the slam of the door downstairs and ascending footsteps, both of which brought on an annoyed sigh. John was back and Sherlock was stuck with two tiny people climbing his head. _Perfect._  
  
Over on the counter, Sam’s mouth almost dropped at the way Sherlock let Dean get away with his griping. Even from where he and Mikael stood to watch the antics, several feet away, Sam could see that Dean was digging his boots in more than he needed to, and Sherlock was _letting_ him. No threats like Euan would make, not even a complaint.  
  
After his experiences the previous day, Sam had almost forgotten what it was like to be around humans that cared.  
  
Triumphantly, Dean pulled himself up into Sherlock's head. “There you are!” he declared, running to catch Kara.  
  
She giggled as she tried to dodge out of the way, but there was no escaping Dean’s arms as he swept her up into a firm hold.  
  
“Didja see how good I am?” Kara asked as she squirmed in his arms. “Best there is!”  
  
A hair of tension left Sherlock's shoulders as it sounded like Dean caught up with Kara. Their shifts were difficult to decipher-- _What I wouldn't do for a MIRROR right about now_\-- so he had to ask, "Have you got her?"  
  
"Eh?" called John as he neared the landing, assuming Sherlock was speaking to him. Sherlock's back was to the kitchen door, so all the detective could hear was the halting of John's footsteps in the threshold and the faint rustling of plastic grocery bags.  
  
Of all the things John expected to come home to, this was far from on the list. Dean and Kara standing on Sherlock's head, the detective seemingly stuck underneath them. The more John took it in, slowly skirting the kitchen table to meet Sherlock's side-eyed glare with an ever-widening grin, the more amused he became.  
  
"Shut up," Sherlock hissed, eyes narrowing at his flatmate's insufferable smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock better watch what he says while Dean's scaling his hair...
> 
> Impeccable timing, Watson. 
> 
> **Next:** November 6th at 9pm
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	5. Distractions (4 of 4)

John considered playing it cool, containing his mirth to spare Sherlock, but after such a long and stressful night following nearly an entire day of nothing but worry, he couldn't hold it in. Once he started giggling, he just couldn't stop.  
  
Sam looked up as John started laughing, a smile slowly forming on his face as the sheer ridiculousness of what he’d woken up to started to really sink in. Dean looked confused where he stood on Sherlock’s head, holding out Kara and staring blankly at John. Then, slightly betrayed when he realized Sam was laughing along.  
  
“Here--” Sam managed to gasp out between laughs. “Let me just…”  
  
Mikael helped him sit on the counter, stretching his bad leg out and leaning against a glass beaker for support.  
  
Dean shook his head in annoyance. Of _course_ Sam would be around for the part where he was practically swimming in Sherlock’s curls holding up a kid so she didn’t get lost.  
  
“I got her,” Dean confirmed. Then, to Kara, “Next time, you’re sticking in the walls unless one of us is with you, okay?”  
  
“‘Kay,” Kara replied gamely. “Toldja I could climb good!”  
  
Dean shook his head. “You sure did. Next time, wait for me so you can _show_ me.”  
  
"We shall all be grateful," muttered Sherlock, reaching up a hand to scoop up Dean and Kara at once. He was completely _done_ with being frozen, unable to so much as move while Dean did all the work climbing his hair and kicking his scalp. Even so, he was careful with his grip as he snatched them from the top of his head, opening his hand as soon as it was level and promptly lowering them to the table next to Christian.  
  
Dean didn’t lower Kara to the ground until Christian was next to them, and her father sealed a hand around her wrist. "What did I tell you about running off on me?" Christian hissed, tugging her back from Sherlock to gain some distance from his hand.  
  
Kara stuck her lip out. "But everyone was _asleep,_ and I've wanted to climb for _months,_" she complained loudly.  
  
"No one got hurt," Dean soothed Christian, wondering how such a nervous man managed a girl as rambunctious as Kara.  
  
Or maybe that was _why_ he was on edge all the time. Experience.  
  
"Just make sure someone's with you the next time you want to leave the walls," Dean said, squatting down next to Kara. "We can't go running off on our own, now, can we?"  
  
"I guess," Kara said in reply. "I like exploring though! We spent so long all locked up."  
  
"We'll check out the walls later," Christian muttered. "I promise you'll get to explore." He brushed a hand through her curls.  
  
For his part, John continued into the kitchen on autopilot as his spell of laughter began to peter out. He almost started to put away the groceries he'd just bought, but if there was anything he was just reminded of, it was that their flat was more occupied than usual. He finally noticed Christian next to Sherlock's hand, and after a quick glance around the kitchen he found Sam and Mikael on the counter nearby.  
  
That sobered the doctor right up.  
  
"Hey, Sam," John greeted, still grinning as he set the groceries down on the floor near the counter. "How are you feeling?"  
  
Sam shifted where he was sitting, unable to hide all the discomfort he felt. "Better than it was before you found me yesterday," he said honestly, skirting around how much it hurt by habit.  
  
"Caught him trying to walk," Mikael said bluntly.  
  
Sam's ears turned red, and he wanted to bury his face in his hands. "I was trying to find Dean!" he protested.  
  
John scratched the back of his neck with an awkward chuckle, glancing back at Sherlock as he leaned back in his chair and pointedly ran both hands through his curls in attempt to claw away the phantom sensations of tiny people crawling around back there.  
  
"Yeah, that may have been my fault," John admitted. "I promised Kara I'd be around to watch her climb and, well, then I left."  
  
Turning back to Sam, John chose his next question carefully. As a doctor, John was responsible for tending to his patient's injuries; and as a friend, he was concerned. Suffering traumatic injury, unable to walk properly without aid, feeling helpless… John would bet that he was the only person in the room that understood what Sam was going through. Understood the desire-- the _need_ for self-sufficiency and how much it dug at him to have his own helplessness pointed out.  
  
Unfortunately, Sam's injury was far from psychosomatic like John's limp had been. There was no quick fix that even Sherlock Holmes could whip up on a whim.  
  
"How 'bout the burn?" he asked. "How did the gel treat you?"  
  
“It’s better,” Sam said, unable to stop from rotating his shoulder. The skin on his back stretched with the movement, and he winced. “It helped me sleep.”  
  
Over on the table, Dean ignored Sherlock and his antics with his curls now that he was free of anyone standing or climbing on him. It felt like weeks since Dean had last seen his little brother instead of just the other night. So much had happened, and he dreaded how much information he had to fill Sam in on. There could be no secrets between them, but Sam deserved to rest and recover instead of worry over mysterious deaths and fires.  
  
“C’mon, Kara,” Christian said nervously, pulling her to the edge of the table. “We should get back and get you some breakfast.”  
  
She hoisted up her new makeshift hook. “I even have my own hook now!”  
  
“Oh, trust me, I know all about it,” Christian muttered.  
  
At the sound of tiny voices, John briefly regarded Kara and Christian. They seemed to be preparing to leave; he wasn't about to stop them if that's what they wanted to do, but he did have to refrain from offering them a lift. Knowing Kara, she'd be eager for the ride, but her poor father seemed plenty frazzled already. John recalled that he seemed like an anxious fellow by nature, one who had only just escaped captivity. He needed time.  
  
It was one thing to offer help when everyone had just gone through an intense ordeal, but John had a feeling that if he kept that up he'd only make them uncomfortable, at best. He'd only provide assistance if they asked for it or in emergency circumstances.  
  
For the most part.  
  
"I should probably have a look at that before you go back," he informed Sam, mindfully pulling a chair closer so he wouldn't tower over the counter, "change the bandage and apply more medicine."  
  
“Yeah, uh, right,” Sam said, trying to hide the wince at the thought of letting John so close to his injuries again. He _knew_ it wasn’t John’s fault for any of it, and trusted the man to treat him with care, but after being pinned down by fingers as long as he was tall and _broken,_ something in him froze up at the thought of how vulnerable he was next to the human doctor.  
  
But Sam knew, deep inside, that John would never be like those people, and did his best to push away those damaging impressions.  
  
“We should race to the bottom!” Kara said, breaking through Sam’s worry with a voice as bright as the sun. She was the only one who showed no signs of fear for the two humans in the room aside from Dean, resilient in her childhood and unending optimism.  
  
Christian glanced at Dean. “You mind if I--” he asked haltingly, glancing at the hook Dean had left attached to the side of the table while chasing Kara.  
  
Dean waved it off. “Feel free.”  
  
Kara already had her makeshift paper clip hook in the side of the table during their aside, and quickly built up a head start on Christian while he swung down to follow on Dean’s thread. He caught up to the tiny kid in no time, passing her with a grin as some of the tension of being near humans wore off with the exposure to his daughter’s excited demeanor. “Make daddy proud!”  
  
John was certainly glad to be sitting in the chair by the time the father and daughter started down their ropes toward the floor. Somehow he felt like less of a hazard to them while seated. That left Dean with Sherlock, which had more than proven to be a safe arrangement. The taller of the two pulled out his phone, seemingly ignoring the tiny folk, so John didn't worry about them as he reached for the first aid kit he'd left on the table.  
  
"Might be best if we just get it over with," John suggested, opening the kit but waiting for Sam's okay before taking anything out.  
  
He took a moment to prepare himself to see the brand again. The night before he'd had no idea what those people had done to poor Sam and it caught him by surprise; while his guard was dropped Sam caught sight of John's outraged glare. Accidentally scaring Sam like that had been an eye opener, and John was determined to be more careful and allow Sam to readjust at his own pace.  
  
“Right,” Sam muttered, taking a deep breath to compose himself. He could do this.  
  
However, he couldn’t do it on his own. Mikael proved to be ever-helpful, assisting Sam as he moved away from the glass beaker he was leaning on, and taking a few steps closer to John so the doctor wouldn’t have to worry about his hands fitting between the scattered glassware on the counter. It put Mikael and Sam out in the open, an uncomfortable thought, and once again Sam had to remind himself that they were safe in this flat.  
  
Sam sat back down cautiously, pushing his satchel to the side and draping his jacket over it. He kept his back facing John as he tugged his black shirt off over his head, that alone showing that he was beginning to recover from his trials. The night before, Dean had to help him with his clothes. Now, Sam couldn’t hide a shudder at the cooler air as it hit his back, the burn making the air feel colder than it really was.  
  
While Sam and Mikael approached, John got all the necessary materials set up. He watched them out of the corner of his eye, quietly worried about the risk of Sam hurting his leg if he continued to be supported by men shorter than him when he wanted to walk. If he put any weight on the injury, there was always the chance of the set misaligning.  
  
Giving himself a mental shake, John decided to deal with one problem at a time and set out the extra bits of gauze and medical tape that he'd cut the night before but neglected to send home with Dean.  
  
"If you could just remove Sam's bandage, um… Sorry, I don't think I caught your name," said John sheepishly as he turned to Mikael.  
  
“Mikael,” came the response, the man in question stiffening at John’s scrutiny. “Mikael Foyer.” He was not prepared for such interactions after his past; both before London and after. Years of living hidden from humans in the motel, and then months packed with _too_ much interaction after his capture.  
  
Introductions over, Mikael knelt down next to Sam. “Easy does it,” he cautioned as he worked his fingers under the medical tape, pulling it up from Sam’s skin as delicately as he could. Unlike regular tape, it didn’t stick harshly to Sam, but based on Sam’s flinch, it stung.  
  
Sam tried to look over his shoulder as Mikael tossed the used gauze to the side, trying to see. “How’s it look?” he asked, his eyes drifting up to meet John’s.  
  
John leaned in for a closer look, managing to keep any negative reaction to the brand or the bruises that mottled Sam's skin to himself. Any redness around the wound had gone down significantly, leaving only a slight pinkness around the charred lines. It wasn't an enormous improvement, but John would take what he got as long as it wasn't getting worse.  
  
"It's on an upswing," John answered Sam's question honestly while he sat back and opened the burn ointment. "As long as we keep up a regular treatment, it should heal without a problem. Here comes the gel."  
  
In time with his gentle warning, John squeezed a tiny drop onto the tip of his finger and lightly applied it to Sam's brand. Once it was evenly spread, the finger retreated and John passed Mikael a small pile of pre-cut gauze and tape. "Would you make him another bandage, please?" he asked, closing and placing the tube of ointment in the kit.  
  
Down in his coat pocket, John’s mobile chimed. He ignored it, prioritizing Sam above all else.  
  
Mikael set to preparing the bandage without a word, focused on the task to the exclusion of everything around him. Tending injuries came naturally to him as it had for years, but it always burned to remember how helpless he was to help his own _wife_ when she was injured by a rat. Equipment like John had might have saved her life.  
  
Christian and Kara were the closest Mikael had to family, and these humans had saved that family.  
  
Just as he thought of the pair he’d taken in as his own, a hook clattered to the edge of the counter, and with halting, juddering stops, latched onto the side of the marble surface. Kara and Christian had made their way across the expanse of the kitchen floor while the two humans were distracted, and when Mikael glanced to the table, he caught sight of Dean inching down his thread, back to his regular slow pace with nothing on the line and no kids getting in trouble. He could work his way back over to where Sam was being tended.  
  
Once the gel was dry enough, Mikael applied the bandage to Sam’s back just as he’d seen Dean do it the day before. It went on without a hitch, and he backed off to let Sam tug his shirt on. The kid’s ears were red and he slipped his arms back into the sleeves speedily.  
  
John did his best not to bother the small family climbing near him while he put away the excess materials. He'd spent enough time around Sam and Dean to understand how easy it was to affect them without even trying.  
  
He was about to send Sam off to join the others, assuming they were all heading back to the brothers' place through the counter entrance, but just then an idea struck him.  
  
"Hey, mind if I take a quick look at your leg, Sam? Just to double-check that the bandages are holding."  
  
John trusted that Dean's handiwork had held, he'd been quite impressed with it the night before. He only needed a reason for Sam to sit back and keep still for a few extra seconds.  
  
Sam nodded, not thinking anything of John’s offer. He’d expected the doctor to examine his leg. Mikael helped him slide so he was facing John, keeping any weight off the leg.  
  
Christian and Kara arrived while Sam was tugging up his pant leg, sidling to the side so they were out of John’s way. Christian had a firm grip on Kara’s arm to avoid any repeats of the shenanigans with Sherlock earlier on.   
  
Dean’s hook joined Kara’s, and as it quavered in place from his climbing, Sam finished adjusting his pant leg and looked up at John again to see what he thought.  
  
Sitting forward again, John nonchalantly lay his right hand near Sam while his left tenderly brushed the bandages. His attention strayed only once to glance at the index finger of his inactive hand, lined up almost perfectly with Sam's head. Before too long, he pulled away with a definitive nod.  
  
"Yep, it's holding perfectly," he concluded with a grin in Dean's direction. "Just take it easy, and let me know right away if it comes loose, right?"  
  
Another chime rang out from his pocket, and this time John bothered to check it. He gave a small sigh, turning a flat glare in Sherlock's direction.  
  
"Really? We're in the same room, Sherlock."  
  
The detective's frown deepened, unwavering. John rolled his eyes and read the texts.  
  
**We need to talk -- SH  
JOHN -- SH**  
  
Cutting his eyes at Sherlock again, he held up a finger for him to wait a minute. Then he turned back to the small congregation of tiny people gathering on the kitchen counter, which was not something John would have ever thought possible a month ago.  
  
"Anything else you need, let us know," he said for what felt like the dozenth time in the last twelve hours.  
  
“T-thanks,” Christian managed to get out, tightening his grip on Kara.  
  
Mikael stepped closer to the others, nodding respectfully at the doctor. “We should get back now.”  
  
Dean strode over to where they were standing, winding his thread around his arm. “I can take care of Sam from here,” he said purposefully. “Kara knows the way to our supply room. I’ll be by later on to clean out some of the stuff, but if you want to get started, feel free. You can stay there until you find a home, it’s no problem.”  
  
“We can never thank you enough,” Mikael said. “All of you.” He cut an awkward bow towards John and Sherlock, then held a hand out for Dean to shake. “Just let me know if we can do anything for you.”  
  
“Don’t mention it,” Dean said, smiling softly at Kara and mussing her hair. “Just try keeping _this_ one out of Sherlock’s hair.”  
  
“R-right,” Christian said, taking a step back towards the wall. “She’ll stick with me from now on.”  
  
Kara just grinned toothily as he guided her to the entrance back into Sam and Dean’s tunnels through the wall, a mischievous look in her eyes.  
  
John offered an amicable smile, getting up to put away his chair so they could leave without a giant hovering the entire time. He still kept a keen eye on Sam and Dean's progress, hoping what he had in mind for the younger brother would help.  
  
Apparently, that would have to be put on hold for a while since Sherlock had something they needed to talk about. Privately, seeing as he was reluctant to speak about it in front of company. So John picked up the groceries he'd left on the floor and began to sort through them, splitting his attention between that and the brothers.  
  
Mikael, Kara and Christian vanished quickly into the walls, leaving Dean on his own with Sam. The moment they were out of sight, Kara pulled away from her dad with a laugh. “We gotta climb to get to the supply room!” she called over her shoulder to them.  
  
Christian shook his head. “What am I going to do with her?” he asked Mikael in an aside.  
  
Mikael frowned thoughtfully. “Be glad she didn’t find her way into someone’s _pocket,_” he decided, watching her skip away into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neon told us she got very strong Lion King vibes when Dean was holding Kara up on Sherlock's head... 
> 
> **Next:** Coming Clean, coming soon!
> 
> The next story to post will be **Clash of the Hunters**, which brings us back to **Brothers Found**, in the aftermath of the horror story (**Jacob in Wonderland**) Keep an eye out for that to start on November 17th after a short posting hiatus!
> 
> Comments and kudos feed the writers!


	6. Coming Clean

Dean knelt down next to Sam. “How you holdin’ up, kid?” he asked, lowering his voice so no one could overhear.  
  
Sam shrugged. “Oh, you know. Another day in the life,” he said gamely as he tugged his pant leg back down to cover up the makeshift splint. “Slept better than I thought I would,” he said more truthfully as he looked back at Dean. “No dreams.”  
  
“Small favors.” Dean sat on the cool surface of the counter, staring at the mottled colors beneath his boots. “It was a long day.”  
  
“Right.” Sam looked away, grateful for a quiet moment with Dean for the first time since his rescue. They needed no words to know how the other felt.  
  
After all the recent excitement, John was glad for a few moments of peace around the flat as well. Seeing Sam and Dean finally relaxing together, reunited and beginning to heal, lifted a huge weight from John's heart. If only they could be so content more often.  
  
Sherlock, of course, had other plans.  
  
The detective cleared his throat, catching John's attention. Sherlock's arms were crossed tightly over his chest and the expectant look in his eyes was sharp and, for his flatmate and closest friend, unmistakable.  
  
"What, now?" John whispered, setting down the box in his hands.  
  
Sherlock nodded, a slight tilt in his head indicating the brothers sitting on the counter.  
  
John blinked, catching Sherlock's meaning but struggling to understand what was going through his head. Whatever he thought they all needed to talk about, it was eating him up inside. John could think of no other reason why Sherlock, usually an insufferable chatterbox, was being so taciturn.  
  
"Okay, um… Sam, Dean?" John spoke up as he turned to face the counter. "Sherlock apparently thinks there's something we all need to discuss, so maybe we should--"  
  
"We need to talk about what happened last night," Sherlock interrupted, sitting forward with his elbows propped on the table and his fingers laced in front of his chin, eyes locked intently on Dean.  
  
Sam stiffened at the unexpected scrutiny as it fell on them, his knack flaring to life as though it had never stopped. The burn cream had soothed the pain from his back enough to be able to differentiate the two sensations, a good sign for him past how nerve-wracking Sherlock could be. It meant his knack had not vanished with the pain of the burn, a thought that had crossed his mind more than once.  
  
Dean, on the other hand, displayed no surprise at all. He had seen this coming since the night before, and only wondered _when_ it would happen.  
  
“What does he mean, ‘what happened last night'?” Sam hissed to Dean. “Didn’t you--”  
  
“We went back,” Dean said, interrupting Sam. “After everyone was settled. We wanted to make sure those people were stopped, that they couldn’t lure anyone else out of the walls to be captured.” He looked at Sherlock. “Did you do it? Did you check if it was sulfur?” The smell in the air of the kitchen spoke volumes of what Sherlock might have been doing before he was interrupted, but Dean needed to hear it from his own mouth.  
  
Sam jolted at the word. “_Sulfur?!_”  
  
"Of course it's sulfur," Sherlock nodded, sparing the remnants of his experiments a glance. "You were correct."  
  
John frowned, concern immediately peaking over Sam's reaction. He had no idea what this was all about, having been left behind to watch after the others while Sherlock and Dean went gallivanting off like they had a tendency to do. Sherlock had yet to fill him in on what exactly they did. "I don't understand. What's sulfur got to do with anything?"  
  
"Rummage and the others, they were all dead long before we arrived--"  
  
"Yeah, I know," John interjected.  
  
"Sam doesn't," said Sherlock pointedly.  
  
John instantly deflated, eyes flicking back to the brothers. "Right… sorry." He felt guilty for forgetting something like that, but so much happened in a short amount of time and it was hard to keep track of who was present for what and what happened to whom, especially since a good chunk of it happened to someone else.  
  
“As it turns out,” Sherlock continued, “the sulfur could have everything to do with _how_ they died.”  
  
“But sulfur’s not something you find at everyday crime scenes,” Sam rambled, forgetting himself in the excitement over what he was being told. “It’s something dad would--”  
  
“Right,” Dean interrupted, “and that’s just the thing.”  
  
He turned to Sherlock, looking at the taller man for a long moment. “I think the time for secrets is long past, but you’ve gotta know, if I come clean, I’m telling you _everything._ This is our lives we’re talking about, start to finish. There’s a reason we don’t bring it up.”  
  
Sherlock's brow furrowed and he exchanged a meaningful look with John, who sank into a chair again in preparation for a long talk. The detective moved his microscope from in front of him to his work table so he could lean forward and keep eye contact with Dean unobstructed.  
  
"John."  
  
"Yeah?" John glanced over his shoulder.  
  
"If I start talking, shut me up."  
  
John scoffed but gave Sherlock a nod. "Sure thing."  
  
Dean's first move was to fill his little brother in on the full events of the night before. "After you and the others were in the house, Sherlock came up with a plan to shut down Euan and the others. To keep them from ever bothering anyone again. It involved his brother Mycroft."  
  
"_Mycroft?_" Sam hissed. "You talked to _another--_"  
  
"_And_ a team Mycroft assembled to help," Dean continued on stubbornly, refusing to explain himself. "They were going to go in and stop Euan, but when they got there, they found everyone dead."  
  
A moment of silence passed between them. "We went to investigate," Dean was quieter now. "All the people there were burned, like there was a fire. Euan-- the worst of all. Pinned to the ceiling and burnt. Sulfur caked to the walls."  
  
Sam's face went white. He didn't know everything about that night so long ago, but he'd heard the stories, passed down from Dean and John both when they let down their guard. He knew how Mary had died, had heard it a thousand times, over and over until he felt like he had seen it himself.  
  
Little did he know he _had_, if only as an infant.  
  
Dean turned to Sherlock and John, taking a steadying breath. "You know our history. You know our mom died in a fire. What I left out-- What I _always_ leave out, is _how_and _what_ did it. I heard dad calling that night. Calling for me, calling for mom, calling for Sam. When I found him, he shoved Sam into my arms and told me to get out of there as fast as I could. Four years old, and I carried my infant brother out of a burning building.”  
  
Tied up in those words was Dean’s entire life’s story. Saving his little brother had become everything to him, and in the end he couldn’t save either of them from one witch, in one motel room. All the events since seemed a farce of what their lives _should_ have been. Saving people, hunting things, just like their dad. Instead they survived, and avoided people when and where they could, and that had only recently begun to change because of Sherlock and John, two humans who had proven themselves to be exceptions in so many ways.  
  
None of this showed in Dean’s voice as he relentlessly went on and bared his soul. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. "I didn't find out what happened that night for months afterwards. Our dad's not the 'sharing and caring' type. We stayed in town for a while, but with no home and no place to go, it was only a matter of time...  
  
"I found him one night, after I tucked Sam into bed, leaned over his journal muttering to himself as he scribbled away. He was drunk and rambling away over the phone to one of his old buddies about finding mom, pinned to the ceiling above Sam's bed.  
  
"And then she burned, and with her our chance at normal lives."  
  
Sam glanced over at Dean as the words died away. It was his first time exposed to the full details of that night. The time for secrets, as Dean said, was long past. "You never told me you're the one that got me out," he said quietly, humbled by the realization of how long Dean had given up on any of the credit for that act, leading Sam to believe John had pulled him out.  
  
Dean shrugged. "Just didn't seem important," he said as the familiar words shouted through his mind, branded into his soul.  
  
_Get your brother outside as fast as you can! Don’t look back!   
  
Now, Dean, go!_  
  
The humans were silent as they listened, not daring to interrupt with Dean suddenly so willing to talk about his past. Sherlock had already begun to connect the dots, but he didn't trust himself to start adding to the conversation just yet.  
  
That left John to put two and two together, which took a moment longer. Contrary to his counterpart, the good doctor had to process the description of the bizarre deaths, unlike anything John had ever seen or heard of. For it to happen in seemingly the exact same way, decades apart should have been unprecedented. And yet, here they all were.  
  
"So… you think whoever killed your mother might have done this, too?" John inferred, carefully putting forward the question when he felt a pause in the conversation.  
  
Dean shrugged. “We don’t know _what_ killed her, only that it wasn’t an accident. No one ever believed dad, so he hit the road for answers. He found out that sometimes, you _should_ be afraid of what’s out there, in the dark. Lurking where humans will overlook it. Me an’ Sam are the poster children for it. One witch and a curse was all it took to hit a dead end in our lives. I was going to be a hunter like dad-- Bobby said I was a natural. Sam wanted to go to college. Yet here we are.  
  
“I know what my dad saw all those years ago. I know he didn’t make it up. It tore him up inside to know our mom was gone forever, and he threw himself into learning all he could in the hopes he could one day track it down and kill it himself.” Dean cut his eyes towards the remains of the experiments Sherlock had done on the sulfur. “We do have one thing he didn’t-- a clue to what it was that attacked those men, and maybe what killed our mom. Sulfur.”  
  
"You told me that sulfur was indicative of _demons_ escaping hell," Sherlock emphasized, preferring not to tiptoe around the subject, no matter how unpalatable. John's head whipped around to stare at Sherlock incredulously, momentarily forgetting their agreement in his surprise. He wasn't sure where this conversation was going, but that was the _last_ thing he'd expected out of Sherlock's mouth. "Fire and brimstone and equally ridiculous--"  
  
"Ah-- what he's trying to say is," John cut in, silencing Sherlock before he could shoot down anything Dean had to say. The detective let out a long sigh and ran a hand down his face to reign himself back in; he truly was making an effort to be less combative, but he was fully aware he was walking into a conversation that would significantly impact his entire worldview. Nothing could prepare him for that, and some part of him would always fight against it.  
  
John kept him right. Kept him from isolating his friends. Sherlock didn't have many.  
  
"It's just, er," John continued, speaking for himself and Sherlock. "We haven't spent our lives believing in all this-- witches and… demons-- like it seems you have. So it might take a bit to accept that such things exist. But we do believe you. Even if some of us _don't_ know how to respond to it."  
  
“You’re not the only ones that have a hard time with it,” Sam interjected softly.  
  
Dean caught his eye. “Sammy here didn’t know a thing about the supernatural until he snuck away with our dad’s journal,” he said wryly. “We tried to protect him from the truth, and that didn’t go far.”  
  
Sam gave him a flat glare. “Like anyone’s gonna believe he’s a door-to-door salesmen when he vanished for _months_ at a time.”  
  
Dean scowled. “What else was I supposed to do?” He jerked his head towards the humans. “It’s not like hiding it would have done anything once we got attacked.”  
  
At least he had more to offer John and Sherlock than words and trust. Dean slipped his hand into his jacket. “We were raised in this life. I learned to fire a handgun when I was _six._ These knives we carry weren’t meant to be used on rats-- I made them out of _silver,_ the bane of any werewolf or shapeshifter.” He proffered the silver knife in question, holding it out for John and Sherlock to examine.  
  
Sherlock managed a sharp sigh in lieu of a scoff at the notion of _werewolves_ now, but he kept his attention on Dean. As tough as it was to swallow, all of this information which the detective would ordinarily write off as nonsensical was apparently integral to Sam and Dean's lives. Thus far the brothers had been honest, if reticent.  
  
Leaning forward to take in the tiny knife in a new light, John nodded to show he understood and glanced briefly at Sam as he recalled the kid mentioning shapeshifters in a previous conversation. John had largely ignored that detail in favor of more pressing issues in that moment that now seemed like an age ago, but he remembered it now. And now he knew what Sam meant.  
  
It did nothing to dull the tragedy of their early childhood, but John kept his opinions about that to himself. What good would they do now?  
  
"And you used things like that to… fight monsters-- you were monster hunters," John surmised, pushing through a phrase he never thought he'd ever say in all seriousness.  
  
Dean nodded, all of his regular snark gone with the serious nature of their talk. “Dad was, and I was learning. Sam was too young-- I don’t think dad ever even knew that Sam found out what he did for a living before we were taken away. He was in town _hunting_ that witch, but she found us first.”  
  
“Other children went missing in town before us,” Sam said softly. “I think it’s safe to say we know what happened to them.”  
  
Dean stowed his knife back in his jacket, leaving it secure in the sheath. “Friggin’ witches.”  
  
John let out a long, steadying breath at the thought of innumerable kids like Sam and Dean being torn from their families, and that for all any of them knew, that witch was still out there carrying on. He had to remind himself that she was long gone and far in the brothers' past, and there were more pressing matters at hand.  
  
"And what about demons?" he asked with only a touch of hesitation. "I mean, if they took out Euan and the others, is there anything we can really do about that? What if it happens again, only this time to someone less deserving of it?"  
  
His hands clasped in his lap to keep an involuntary tic in his left hand under control. Most days John could ignore it, unless he was feeling uneasy or anxious (e.g. learning about a demonic force of nature that was clearly more powerful than anything he'd ever dealt with) and the tremor flared up. It was a major influence in John's decision to refrain from touching the brothers when it wasn't completely necessary.  
  
“They can be stopped,” Dean said, “if you know who they are, or where they’re going to strike. There are ways to fight back against any of the monsters out there, demon or not. You just have to know what you’re up against.”  
  
“Knowing where to look is the hard part, and what our dad was best at,” Sam said, joining in.  
  
Dean nodded encouragingly. “Researching, tracking patterns, these things are usually pretty predictable compared to humans. They have certain types of targets, certain times of month or year they appear. Find the pattern, find the monster. Then you just have to stop them before they stop you.”  
  
That got John thinking, and Sherlock's hand clenched into a fist as he looked at his friend and realized _what_ he was thinking. While Sherlock was fighting with every fiber of his mind to keep from storming out of the room to peacefully continue denying the existence of the supernatural, John was actually _considering_ the information in a practical manner. Sherlock could practically see his train of thought.  
  
The way Sam and Dean put it, this 'monster hunting' sounded formulaic. Manageable, even.  
  
"So," John mused, "if--"  
  
“_No._” Sherlock shot a glare at his flatmate as John turned a flat look toward him. "We are _not_ here to deal with hypotheticals."  
  
John shifted in his seat to face Sherlock, unamused by his interruption. "It's not _hypothetical_ if this thing has attacked already, is probably still out there, and could do it again,"  
  
"And?" Sherlock shot back. "Hardly anything we can do about that now, is there. We don't know what it looks like, what its motives were, what it wants, or where it is. We can't even be certain it's still in London! What good would _hunting_ it do?"  
  
"I'm not saying we should go after it," John argued, "all I'm saying is that we should be prepared. This thing is clearly dangerous, and if it can pin a human being to the ceiling, think about what it could do to _them._" He waved his hand toward the brothers. "Any of them. We'd be thick to ignore a threat like that!"  
  
"And you're going to protect them all, are you, _doctor?_"  
  
John's lips pressed into a thin line, letting out a long breath as he ran a hand wearily down his face. He was _not_ going to have a row with Sherlock in front of Sam and Dean. He'd already scared Sam once just by_ looking _angry, the lad didn't need that kind of stress while he was still healing.  
  
Sherlock took full advantage of John's pause and looked back at Sam and Dean. "What matters to me is the usefulness of this information, how this applies to our current situation. Obviously Mycroft will want to hear from me soon, considering it's his people who found the bodies and we _need_ him."  
  
Dean scowled right back, not put off by Sherlock’s intensity. “What we know is those three men were _attacked,_ one pinned to the ceiling, the others burned where they stood.”  
  
“_Euan_ pinned to the ceiling,” Sam said quietly, his encounters with the man running through his mind. He’d never had cause to want someone dead before, but to die like _this,_ like their mom--  
  
“And the fire put out before it grew out of control,” Dean continued on as though he’d never been interrupted. “So _whatever_ did it, this was a focused attack. Targeted.” He frowned. “Dad always said demons wanted death and destruction for its own sake, yet here we are with the same M.O.D. twenty-two years later, across the ocean. There _has_ to be a connection!”  
  
“You mean like me,” Sam said bluntly.  
  
Dean twisted towards Sam. “No that’s--” He cut himself off in realization, rubbing his hand down his face. “That’s not what I meant.” The words were hollow as it sank in that the only connection between the two attacks were the Winchesters themselves.  
  
"Whoa, hey," John's brow shot up and he turned back toward the brothers with thinly veiled concern. "None of that is on you, alright?" Even if this thing _was_ after Sam and Dean for some reason-- and John sincerely hoped that wasn't the case-- he didn't want them to blame themselves for things they had no control over. "We can figure this out." He looked to Sherlock. "Can't we, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock shoved his chair back and rose to his feet. "You three can 'figure out' all you like," he muttered, thumbing his phone and avoiding eye contact with anyone as he made his way toward the back of the kitchen.  
  
John tossed up his hands. "Where are you going?"  
  
"I'm going to tell Mycroft not to fuss about the murders before he starts annoying me about it. I expect I'll pass out for some time after that."  
  
"You can't just ignore this like there isn't something here!"  
  
Sherlock rounded on his flatmate. "I'm not ignoring anything. I've listened to what they've had to say, I've accepted the information as integral to this particular case, but I will _not_ be a part of any monster hunt."  
  
“Tell him what you want,” Dean said shortly, pushing himself to his feet. “I said no secrets, and that’s what we did. Now you know. We’ve been caught up in this kind of thing since long before our curse. It’s practically in our blood to want to fight back. That witch just took away any chance we had of making a difference on our own.”  
  
Dean went over to where Sam was sitting, legs outstretched and his satchel left to the side. “We should get back and get some breakfast,” he muttered, offering Sam an arm to help him stand. “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t had a thing since last night.”  
  
Sam used Dean’s hand to pull himself off the ground, almost hopping in place when he was standing, cautious to avoid placing any weight on the broken limb. It took a moment before the two brothers were able to move as one, Sam leaning his arm across Dean’s shoulders for support and Dean wrapping his other arm around Sam’s back to hold him straight.  
  
Before they turned to leave, Dean looked straight at John. “If you want to know more about how to stop a demon in its tracks, you know where to find me,” he said. “You might want to think about carrying some salt with you if people in the city are getting possessed.”  
  
John nodded emphatically, ignoring Sherlock as he stormed off down the hall with a huff and a slam of his bedroom door. "I'll keep that in mind," he promised, wondering to himself what sort of effect salt would have in that kind of scenario.  
  
Rubbing his temple, he added, "Look, don't let him get to you." John let very little of his irritation at Sherlock's behavior show in his expression, hoping the detective hadn't just put a wrench in the already delicate peace between the flatmates. "He'll come around. He's just stubborn as a rock sometimes."  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, waving it off with his free hand. “That’s about the reaction I expected. I _warned_ him when he asked last night that no one ever believes us. I’ve seen my dad get chased out of a town with a shotgun because of it, even after he saved their lives.”  
  
Dean shook his head to clear it of those thoughts. “Like I said, I’m around if you want to know more. You know where to look. C’mon, kid.”  
  
With slow, halting steps, Dean and Sam started off towards the crack in the corner of the counter, heading towards their tunnels and home. With Dean’s help, Sam was able to go a little faster than with Mikael, since Dean was taller and bulkier. Yet it was still clear that the younger Winchester had to strain with Dean so much shorter, almost draped over his shoulders at times for support.  
  
John frowned as he watched the brothers go, leaving him alone in the kitchen with the groceries. Even after such a huge reveal, Sam and Dean remained as enigmatic, yet strangely understandable as ever.  
  
With a deep breath, John took a moment to let the events of the morning sink in before he got on with putting away his purchases. His mind turned, revisiting each and every bit of new information, more than Dean had ever freely given in the time he'd known the detective and the doctor. John marveled at the trust displayed by the elder Winchester.  
  
His thoughts ground to a halt and his hand froze as it reached to put away a box of crackers. A glance at his hand reminded John of the idea he'd had earlier, and it brought a resolute smile to his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This talk has been a long time in coming, and Sherlock still resists the truth about the supernatural! 
> 
> The next story to post will be Bobby of Far Away, which brings us back to Brothers Asunder. It will begin posting after a month-long hiatus on February 16th, so be sure to give us a visit!
> 
> **Next in Aftermath:** Doctor's Orders, coming soon!


	7. Doctor's Orders (1 of 2)

Once all the groceries were put away, John began to pick through all the drawers and shelves in the kitchen for materials, constantly comparing items that were small, thin, and durable to his right index finger. Earlier he'd surreptitiously set it alongside Sam to act as a measuring tool, and as he looked back at his finger he could remember exactly how long Sam's body was in relation to it and, most importantly, the distance between his feet and his underarm.  
  
John was adamant that Sam wouldn't have to rely on Dean and Mikael in order to get around anymore. Both were well-meaning men, the latter especially kind to offer help, but Sam was simply too tall for their shoulders to be sufficient crutches.  
  
If John could find the right materials, he was determined to make one for Sam.  
  
On the very last drawer he checked, John let out a triumphant "Ha!" as he dug out a half-used pencil. It was about four inches long, but John would need to cut the tip off anyway so it would fit comfortably under Sam's arm. The material was sturdy and strong, yet malleable enough for John to alter it however he liked.  
  
Another idea popped into his head, and he strode into the main room in search of a small container full of tiny pins, similar to Moira's weapon but only a fraction of that length. They, in addition to tacks and other such pins, were used mostly by Sherlock to plaster his thoughts and findings to the wall when he was deep into a case. John chose one with a dark navy sphere on the non-pointy end, small enough for Sam to get his hand around easily for extra grip.  
  
Now all he needed was some kind of cushion, a soft material to ensure Sam's comfort while using the crutch. Setting his materials on the kitchen table where he wouldn't lose them, John picked through both rooms for anything that could help.  
  
Out of nowhere, John recalled waiting in line at the shop. Right at eye level, they displayed all kinds of impulse bought snacks or household items. He remembered seeing a few eyeglass repair kits, little tubes filled with tiny screwdrivers and, more importantly, those little pads for the bridge of your nose.  
  
John went downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson if she had a kit he could borrow. Sherlock was as good an excuse as any.  
  
As luck would have it, their kind landlady was more than happy to give John a kit she had buried in her drawer with hardly a question. He politely indulged in small talk for a moment before hurrying back upstairs to assemble the crutch.  
  
After cutting the pencil to size, John sharpened it just enough so that the end tapered but the tip was still flat. Then he worked to shape the eraser, which seemed relatively untouched; John could only deduce that Sherlock had used it for note taking in the past, jotting down thoughts as fast as they could come and hardly ever going back to erase. This made it very easy for John to carefully cut and wear down a small divot into the rubber in the shape of an underarm.  
  
Once that was done, John meticulously placed the small pin to the exact spot where Sam could grip it with a comfortably bent arm, referring to his finger to make sure his measurements were correct. He embedded it about halfway into the pencil, then pulled it out and fetched a tube of super glue, adhering it firmly in place. The whole thing would be rubbish if the pin managed to slip out.  
  
The superglue turned out to be handy; John used it to attach the nose-pad cushions where he wanted them, to make sure they stayed put as well. He cut them to size as he went, the material for one covering the eraser, another the hand grip, and much of the excess was saved for the very tip of the tiny crutch.  
  
While he waited for the glue to dry, John sat back in his chair and looked over his work critically. He was quite proud of how it had turned up, but something in the back of his mind nagged at him. Getting either brother to accept anything he offered had been a struggle in the past, especially Sam. With everything the younger Winchester had gone through, the last thing John wanted to do was seem patronizing, like he was giving a handout.  
  
John chewed his lip, pondering the best way to present his creation to the brothers.  
  


* * *

  
The rest of the morning passed without event for the occupants of the walls in 221B Baker Street.  
  
After Dean saw Sam to a seat at their makeshift table to have some breakfast with Moira doting on him, he traveled through the walls to check up on the supply room. Arriving there, it was only moments before Mikael chased him off with stern words to get some rest. Mikael wasn’t fooled by his protests and insistences that he was fine, he’d slept enough.  
  
It certainly did make it easier to just collapse into his nest for a few hours. No one needed him for the first time in two days.  
  
Eventually, Dean _did_ have to get up. His nap gave him the energy he needed to contemplate the chores that were waiting for him. Plenty of people needed feeding, and after their trials, he didn’t want them fending for themselves.  
  
Off to the kitchen he went.  
  
Aside from Sam and Moira, no one else was at home when Dean left. He could only assume that Mark and Anita had joined the Americans in the supply room. At this rate, the room might be emptied of Sam and Dean’s overflow before either brother got over there. The room was carefully stocked with either extra supplies of what they used the most-- tinfoil, paper clips, pins and cardboard being a few, stuff Dean hadn’t found a use for, or older supplies they no longer used and set to the side in case they needed it in the future.  
  
In the cupboard, Dean slowly went through the new boxes John had brought home, wishing one or two of them was open or even just on the side. He finally decided to give climbing the new box of crackers a try; he just had to get his arm and knife in to tear a hole in the wrapper and get some food. Later on he could make a run for fresher food after the humans had their dinner.  
  
Of course, Dean’s run of bad luck continued when he knocked over a small box of raisins trying to climb the bigger box.  
  
“Sonovabitch!”  
  


* * *

  
Out in the kitchen, John was still sitting staring at the tiny crutch lying on the table when he heard the small clatter in the cupboard. His brow rose when he realized he wasn't alone.  
  
John got slowly to his feet and tentatively approached the cupboard, unsure of who he'd find, though from that muffled curse it was a safe bet that it was Dean. No matter who it was, though, John _had_ to check on them, make sure they weren't hurt by whatever he just heard.  
  
"You okay?" he called softly, opening the door a crack to peer in at the small person within.  
  
Caught off guard by the unexpected flood of light, Dean stumbled to his feet, one arm half-raised in defense with his other hand diving for his knife. Years of instincts developed from his size had combined with the wariness he’d learned from his father, putting him constantly on edge and ready to act at a moment’s notice.  
  
Realizing who was there, Dean’s eyes narrowed and he felt the tension leave his back. It was just John, and he meant well, despite how startling he could be.  
  
  
“I’m fine,” Dean said gruffly, straightening as he pointedly brushed off his jacket, refusing to acknowledge the way his heart had leapt into his throat. These humans knowing them was still going to take some getting used to. If John had opened that door a few months back, Sam and Dean would both be diving for cover.  
  
John nodded, taking Dean's word for it. He didn't seem to be hiding any major injury, at least. Even so, he did seem to catch the little fella by surprise, which was not John's intention at all. Given their size difference, he supposed it was unavoidable now and then. "Right then. Sorry for prying, just had to check, I'll um…"  
  
He was just turning to leave Dean to his business when his gaze fell on the tiny crutch again, and he had a thought.  
  
"Actually, could I ask you something? I need a little advice."  
  
Dean paused in his brushing, his eyebrows going up. “Yeah?” he asked curiously, stepping closer to the edge of the cupboard. He sent one brief glare at the box of raisins and their betrayal of his position, already deciding that after his stumble, that box belonged to _him._ He could skip the crackers this time.  
  
“We went a whole year without being noticed and now I can’t make it twenty-four hours,” Dean muttered to himself, then looked up at John. “What seems to be the problem, doc?”  
  
"Well, you see I, er," John paused as he chose his words carefully, widening the gap in the cupboard door until it could stand open on its own. "I made something that I hoped could help. With Sam. To get around on his own since, y’know, he needs so much help with that lately and I know he must hate it."  
  
John took a steadying breath before carrying on. "The thing is, I've been trying to figure out a way to offer it without it seeming like a handout, or that I think Sam's helpless because I know he isn't and... Do you see my problem?"  
  
Dean pursed his lips in thought. “If it’s for his injury, it’s not as much a _handout_ as it is doctor’s orders,” he reasoned as he worked through John’s problem out loud. “It’s one thing to take food we didn’t earn ourselves, it’s a whole other thing if it’s something Sam needs to get better.”  
  
A huge part of Dean was determined to help Sam get better as fast as possible, just like after Sherlock bruised the kid’s chest, so he wasn’t against any ideas John might have. As shown by the day before when Dean had pulled Sherlock and John both into the search for Sam, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for his little brother.  
  
Dean held out his hands, beckoning at John to get on with it. “Lemme see whatcha got, and I can smooth things over with Sam if I have to.”  
  
John blinked, surprised that Dean wanted to see it already. "Oh, uh, okay! Just a sec," he said, stepping back toward the table to delicately retrieve the crutch he'd made. Then he lifted it carefully to where Dean could reach and let the smaller man take it.  
  
"Do you think he'll like it?" John asked as he watched Dean examine his handiwork.  
  
Dean hefted the scaled-down crutch, his eyebrows going up in appreciation at the attention to detail John had paid while crafting it. It was fairly lightweight to Dean, so Sam wouldn’t have a problem lifting it up (another perk of being the taller brother was also being the _stronger_ brother, leading Dean to spend more time learning how to turn that strength around on Sam or anyone else). He put it on the shelf and pushed down on the handle, making sure the workmanship was solid and didn’t wobble.   
  
Dean couldn’t give it a proper test, being too short to fit the crutch under his arm, but he stood on his tip toes with his arm over the cushion and bounced in place. The pencil held, the cushion didn’t budge and the pin held fast.  
  
“Nice work,” Dean said appreciatively, tucking the crutch under his arm. “You wouldn’t do bad yourself at our size with this kind of skill.” The compliment did not come lightly; Dean rarely handed out praise unless it was well and truly deserved. “I won’t have the Sasquatch draped all over me the next time he decides to go wandering.” He looked up at John. “Sam’ll love it for sure.”  
  
John practically beamed at the praise, knowing it meant a lot coming from Dean. If he recalled correctly, Dean had referred to himself as a mechanic the night before, and certainly knew his way around the insidious machine that bloke Mark had strapped to his back before Dean removed it. For someone as good with his hands as Dean to commend John in such a way was truly an honor for the doctor.  
  
He'd never thought about it, but now that Dean brought it up John began to wonder how he _would_ fare in Sam and Dean's world. He might be crafty and clever in a pinch, but would that be enough to get by in a world entirely too large for him?  
  
"Glad to hear it!" John replied, shaking off his previous thought in favor of taking the compliment. Then with a glance around the cupboard, he remembered that Dean had been busy before John cut in. "I'll, ah, leave you to it, shall I?"  
  
Dean gave John a jaunty salute with his free hand, hitching up his duffel and making sure he had a good grip on the crutch. “Do what you want,” he replied, though there was no undercurrent of envy in his voice anymore. John had his world and Dean’s was separate, and that’s all there was to it. “I’ll get this to Sam so he can try it out before he gets himself in trouble.”  
  
When he turned to leave, he nearly tripped over the box of raisins _again,_ catching his balance against the friggin’ crackers with his free hand with a strangled curse. Giving the raisins a look that accused them of sabotaging any hope he had of being ninja for the day, Dean scooped up the box before he headed for the walls and home.  
  
John nodded in return and muttered, "Be seeing you," as he carefully closed the cabinet door. It was a relief to know that Sam would receive the crutch immediately; every extra moment Sam had with a healthy method of walking around added up, and John was proud to have helped.  
  
Looking at the pantry reminded John that he hadn't yet had lunch. To give Dean time to be clear of the cupboard, John perused the fridge despite its usual slim pickings. He didn't have much of an appetite, but he knew he should eat something.  
  
He did manage to find a small bunch of grapes, some deli-sliced turkey and enough cheese to put on crackers and a sandwich. By the time he'd gathered these, he judged that Dean should be gone and returned to the cupboard to fetch a handful of crackers from the new box.  
  
While John was at it, he opened the other new packages he'd just added to the collection, realizing how much effort it would take for someone Dean's size to open them on their own. John wouldn't count himself as a good host if he went to the trouble of purchasing a wider variety of food for his numerous guests and then left them with the hard work of accessing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back for an interlude in the Brothers Consulted universe!
> 
> **Next:** May 24th, 2020
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!
> 
> Coming on June 3rd, Brothers Apart will be heading into its third season! Stay tuned for a tumultuous story!


	8. Doctor's Orders (2 of 2)

Arriving back at home, Dean was unsurprised to find Sam left on his own.  
  
The younger Winchester was sitting in a corner, his lap once more covered in the scattered papers that made up his journal. He wasn't writing in them at the moment, but instead carefully reading through. As Dean watched, Sam brushed his hand reverently down one to smooth the wrinkles on it, then set it to the side.  
  
After a moment's consideration, Dean left the box of raisins against the wall, giving it an 'accidental' kick for the way it tripped him up multiple times in the cupboard. At this rate, neither of the humans in the flat would think he could slip around undetected.  
  
Damn box. At least raisins lasted _forever._  
  
Dean strode over to his little brother, and Sam looked up at him through messy bangs. "Hey," Sam greeted, his voice hollow.  
  
"How's it going?" Dean asked, squatting next to Sam and squinting down at the pages with a keen eye.  
  
Dean caught sight of a familiar name on the plain paper right as Sam started talking, his heart freezing a little at _Bobby Singer_ scribbled out in Sam's bold lettering.  
  
"Just... going through the stuff I did before... y'know," Sam said lamely, pushing the scrap with Bobby's name to the side to join the pile. "John let me use the laptop the other night, and I looked up a few old friends."  
  
"That was nice of him," Dean commented, his mind racing with possibilities. With Bobby's number, they could call him up. Try and reach out to find their dad, track down other hunters who might know more about the witch, get tips on hunting demons--  
  
All of his thoughts came to a crashing halt. Didn't matter if they had Bobby's number. They were still 'not human' anymore. There wasn't much hope that hunters would help _them._ Maybe Sherlock and John, if they asked right and didn't question or dig at the pride of the hunters, but not Sam and Dean, two distinctly non-human guys with psychic tendencies. The psychic skills alone would make them 'dangerous.'  
  
Sam followed Dean's line of thought as it crossed his face. "Yeah," he said. "My thoughts exactly." He covered up the paper with Bobby's name on it. "Maybe one day we can contact him."  
  
Dean shook his head to clear it. "I almost forgot." He stood, untucking the crutch from under his arm. "John made this for you so you can get around while you're healing. Doctor's orders. Any weight on that leg could ruin the set."  
  
Sam's eyes widened and his eyebrows went up. "He made a _crutch?_ " Sam blurted in surprise, holding his hands out.  
  
Dean had to laugh as he handed it over for Sam to inspect. "Made it, and _sized_ it for you, I think," he said, watching Sam rub his hands up the side of the pencil. "I couldn't get my arm over the top without stretching."  
  
"Here, lemme try," Sam said, jabbering on in his excitement. Dean helped haul him to his feet, Sam balancing on one leg while he fit the crutch under his arm.  
  
For the next ten minutes, Dean watched his little brother try out his crutch, going as far as doing circles around their main room and checking out the passageway to the kitchen, all on his own. Dean had to hide the smile that came to his face at the thought of his little brother, home and safe and sound no matter what those people had tried to do with them. All because of Sherlock and John.  
  


* * *

  
Later on as the day approached evening, Sam tentatively crossed the bookshelf that lay outside their front door. Just a few nights ago, he'd sat there watching John work. For a person his size, it was a rare opportunity to see a computer used from such a close vantage point, even so far as getting to work on it himself.  
  
The going was slow as Sam used his new crutch, but a thousand times better than having to ask Dean or Mikael for help (there was no way Christian would be able to give him a hand considering the guy barely reached Sam's chest. Mark hadn't come anywhere _close_ to Sam since the kidnapping; Sam kept his thoughts on that to himself). With the crutch, he didn't feel the need to explain himself to everyone when he wanted to stretch his legs, and there was no way Dean would help him to the shelf without knowing exactly _why_ and _how long_ Sam would be there.  
  
The cushion under his arm kept the crutch from straining or making his side sore, and the pin was solid as he gripped it. Sam's practice earlier on in the day left him tired from the new strain, but exhilarated by the freedom, and now he was ready to test it out.  
  
Sam reached the end of the books at last, skirting the edge of the shelf by a good margin and looking out into the open air, eager to thank John for his help.  
  


* * *

  
The good doctor had spent most of the day in his armchair, getting up every now and then to stretch his legs and find something to eat or drink. Even with everyone seemingly settling in, he wanted to be sure that someone was around in case they needed anything. Despite this, John was far from bored. He put on the telly for a few hours to see if any of last night's events had caught any attention from the news; nothing out of the ordinary showed up there.  
  
When he got tired of that, John turned to his computer for something to pass the time. The conversation with the brothers that morning provided plenty of research fuel for the curious doctor. His only issue was figuring out what was legitimate lore and what was fluff and superstition.  
  
Sherlock emerged from his room exactly once to grab a bite, storming immediately back when he happened to look over John's shoulder and found a page regarding demon possessions. John ignored him and carried on.  
  
Things were quiet until a soft clatter broke through the silence and John caught the slightest motion in the corner of his eye. Slowly, so as not to startle anyone, John looked over to find Sam shuffling into view on his crutch.  
  
"Hey," he greeted softly, a small smile tugging at his lip to see the crutch being put to good use. "Getting on alright?" he asked as he settled back in his chair.  
  
“It’s _great_,” Sam enthused, not deterred at the sudden flare-up of his knack when John caught sight of him. He was out here to thank John, on his own, without any help, and that was just what he was going to do, residual nerves or not.  
  
Sam had spent most of the day-- aside from his brief trip to check up on Dean when Kara went missing-- in the walls of Baker Street. It was a relief after the day before to be away from prying eyes and burning tingles on the back of his neck, but he knew none of that was John or Sherlock’s fault. In fact, they were the only reason he and the others were free now, and Sam was determined to do his best to not let it hold him back.  
  
“I don’t have to wait on Dean if I need anything,” Sam continued on, not letting any of his thoughts show on his face while he demonstrated getting around on the crutch. “Or ask his _permission._” Sam screwed up his face in annoyance.  
  
John's grin widened at Sam's enthusiasm as he watched the kid navigate the makeshift aid. "Thought you might prefer a bit more independence," he said with a nod. "Can't be easy, being the tallest with a leg injury."  
  
It was hard to avoid remembering his own cane, one that John was once convinced he relied on. It had been a burden to John, and he had to remind himself that Sam's was the opposite.  
  
"Glad to see it fits you alright!" John commented, shifting to lean on the arm closer to Sam for a better look. The lad had really taken to the crutch, to John's relief. All his pent-up worries from earlier in the day seemed to melt with each step Sam took on his own.  
  
“I might not be able to get too _far,_” Sam continued blithely on as he practiced on the length of the shelf, “since most of the rest of the flat requires climbing, but at least I can get anywhere from here to the kitchen on my own.”  
  
He finally came to a halt, taking a few deep breaths. All the renewed activity cost him his strength, and he was getting a handle on the strain the crutch put on his arm. It would take work to strengthen his arm the way he was using it now, and Sam was determined to try.   
  
“Do you mind if I hang out here for a bit?” Sam asked hesitantly. “It gets pretty boring inside, plus everyone’s really busy emptying the storeroom out for the others…”  
  
"Not at all," John assured with a nod. "Yeah, rest up, stay as long as you like." It was good to see Sam willing to try spending time out and about with a human like John, after what he'd just experienced. Even so, he knew better than to expect Sam to simply bounce back like nothing happened. He'd need time, and John was more than prepared to give him the patience he deserved.  
  
Looking back at his computer, John added, "I was just looking up one or two things, seeing what I can find about, y'know, the kind of stuff we talked about earlier, but if you want to do something else I don't mind. Probably wasn't getting very far anyway."  
  
Sam made his way over to one of the thicker books. After Sherlock’s removal of all the tomes the night before, the layer of dust was gone from the shelf, giving Sam a good place to sit without ending up with motes of dust coating his hair and clothes.  
  
Setting the crutch to the side, Sam slid down until he was sitting, the book giving him a decent backrest. His injured leg remained stretched out in front. Sam made sure the crutch was within reach, then peered at John’s computer, wondering just how much the human had found in his search online. It was one of the lines of inquiry Sam was interested in pursuing, much like he’d tracked down their father’s old friends the night before.  
  
“Let me know if you have any questions,” Sam offered. “I might have snitched our dad’s journal a few more times than Dean knows about… Memorized a good portion before we lost him.”  
  
John smirked, carefully shifting in his seat and turning his laptop so Sam could plainly see the screen. "No specific _questions_ just yet, I'm just having a big of a hard time sifting through the information. It's difficult with the internet, can't believe everything you read. But looking up 'demons'… It seems all I can find is a bunch of religious stuff, or riveting articles titled 'Do You Have Demons In Your Colon?,’ which I highly doubt is a common medical issue."  
  
With a scoff and a shake of his head, John scrolled through the page of search results and hovered over a few he'd considered earlier. "I read over a few interesting sources regarding demon possession and what to do about them, but it's all Greek to me. I can't tell what's real and what's not for the life of me."  
  
Sam laughed. “Yeah, I’ve heard that’s a problem. Dean complains about how a lot of legends got mixed up in the retellings when they were passed down, so even legitimate looking sources can be pretty sketchy. Like werewolves never sprout fur during the full moon the way you see them in movies.”  
  
It felt good to talk about something where Sam was the expert. He’d lived on stories about the supernatural while growing up under the curse. Werewolves, vengeful spirits, shapeshifters… John Winchester had fought them all, often with Dean at his side when he was old enough to know one end of a gun from the other.  
  
“You won’t see any witches flying around on brooms,” Sam said thoughtfully. “They blend in better than most because they _are_ human.”  
  
With a thoughtful hum, John considered his search a little more carefully. He had a feeling that if monsters turned out to exist, films would be a rather poor source of worthwhile information. It was lucky he had Sam, who was clearly more knowledgeable about such things, to run his findings by.  
  
"Suppose 'demons' might have been a bit of a jump for my first run at it, eh?" Running a hand through his hair, John returned to the search bar for a fresh start. Then he glanced back at Sam with curiosity and the slightest hint of apprehension. Of all the things to get tangled up in, _monsters_ was the last thing he'd ever expected.  
  
Even so, if it might help on a case one day and Sherlock was unwilling to pursue it further, John practically felt obligated to dive deeper.  
  
"Any suggestions for a beginner?" John asked. This was all a huge part of Sam and Dean's old lives, and any chance at a better understanding of them would not be lost on John.  
  
“A lot of it’s experience,” Sam admitted. “Some we have, some we don’t. Our dad learned things through trial and error, or from what others knew.”  
  
That reminded him. Sam pulled out a sheet that was more than familiar to him after only days of having it. The number of Bobby Singer’s house, one person John Winchester had always relied on.  
  
“If something comes up and we _need_ information, we can call Bobby,” Sam said as he stared at the numbers. “Or, I guess, you can. We don’t know if he’ll talk to us anymore, since, y’know, we’re not really _human_ now.” He folded the paper back up, pinching the crease and working out some of his nervous energy on the paper. “Not many hunters will pay attention to us since our change. They’re more likely to want to hunt us.”  
  
"But Bobby, he's… you told me he was your friend," John recalled, not a single word of their conversation the other day forgotten. "He knows your dad, he knew you and Dean as kids."  
  
John had only just learned about hunters and was far from an expert, and while he was fascinated by what they did, hearing about their demeanor was another thing. Anyone who could look at someone like Sam and treat them as less than human or, God forbid, hunt them down and kill them… The thought put a sour taste in John's mouth, and a glance at Sam's injured leg reminded him that there _were_ such people out there.  
  
"If… if that meant anything to him," John continued, "then at least in his case, what happened to you shouldn't change a thing."  
  
Sam shrugged, wishing he could say different. “Bobby _was_ our family friend,” he said. “Now… we just don’t know. Werewolves don’t get better; they’re tainted the moment they get bit. There’s no way to stop them from killing again. As far as most hunters are concerned, anything supernatural has to go.  
  
“And then there’s us. We’re too small to exist, and we both have psychic abilities we _shouldn’t_. Sure, Bobby might not do anything to us, and Dad might be the same. But we _don’t know,_ and unless it’s an emergency, we don’t want to risk it. What if they figure out about the others like us? What if other hunters find out through them? We owe them better than that.”  
  
When Sam finished, John brought himself to nod in understanding of what he'd been told. He might as well have been frozen as he listened, a few blinks and a pinched brow the only signs of movement. Letting the computer slide to the side of his lap, he leaned forward and ran both hands down his face with a long, deep breath.  
  
He tried not to let it anger him, how cruel the world could be. Working alongside Sherlock, he knew better than most how twisted-up some people could be in the way it manifested in the crimes people committed for one reason or another. Somehow, when it regarded Sam and Dean and others their size, it seemed personal. It was one thing with the brothers; he'd gotten to know them and felt real sorrow and guilt when Sam went missing. The outrage he felt at even the _idea_ of anyone wronging the smaller folk was just as strong, and John had yet to find a way to control that.  
  
He did his best to keep it to himself, for Sam's sake.  
  
"Guess you're right," he murmured as he lifted his head to look back at Sam, his face a neutral mask with as much kindness in his eyes as ever. "I mean, obviously this is your department, so… I trust your judgment on this. As much as it sounds like I could learn, something tells me this type of stuff _might_ not be a very pressing issue yet. Until then, I'd rather not do anything that would make you or Dean uncomfortable.”  
  
With another deep breath and a glance down at his fidgeting left hand, John added, "For the record, anyone who thinks you or Dean or any of the others is a monster is an idiot. And that's not my opinion, that right there is _fact._"  
  
“That means a lot,” Sam said, blinking back a surprising amount of emotion. He’d never expected to find such a good friend in a human after the curse. “We’ve known how hunters might react since it happened, so it’s nothing we’re not prepared for. Maybe one day we’ll give Bobby a call, but until then, if you need any help with research, I’m always around.”  
  
Sam tucked the paper back into his jacket, in one of the pockets he’d sewn in right above where the sheath of his knife remained at all times. “I’ll keep his number around, just in case. There’s no one better to call about the supernatural, except maybe our dad, and _he’s_ a lot harder to track down with no home address.”  
  
"Sounds like a plan," John agreed, sitting back in his chair. With a heavy sigh, he let go of any residual tension in his chest after that more serious talk, and regarded his laptop again. He thought about putting it away, but Sam had just settled in and hadn't had the chance to use it since returning to the flat. The kid might not be able to type on his own just yet, but John could help with that until he was well enough.  
  
Clearing his throat, John waved at his computer and said, "Well, I've had my fill of this old thing." He offered a small smile to Sam. "Anything you want to look up?"  
  
“N-no, I’m fine!” Sam blurted, caught off-guard by John’s offer. Somehow, he never saw the offers coming, leaving him scrambling a little to answer. He had other things to do and organize, anyway, which was what he had been planning on working on before John had sidetracked him with questions on hunting.  
  
Sam patted his satchel. “I was just planning on working on my notes,” he informed the doctor. “It was too… _quiet_ in our place. I needed some air.”  
  
John nodded, knowing that asking Sam something like that was a long shot. He didn't intend to put any pressure on the kid either way, so he folded up the laptop and set it down by his feet.  
  
"Alright," he muttered as he pushed himself to his feet, doing his best to ignore how small Sam looked from the shelf. By all accounts he should be _used_ to sights like that. For whatever reason, John hesitated to get comfortable with being so large in comparison.  
  
"I'm gonna get the fire started, but don't hesitate to give a shout if you need anything," John informed Sam. He didn't want the kid thinking that he was about to walk out on him, especially if it was simply friendly company Sam was looking for. Even if he was done with the internet for the day, John could find some quiet way to entertain himself.  
  
Sam nodded in reply, doing his best to relax. John standing had made his heart jump into his throat, and it took a long moment for him to push through the dismaying thoughts that rose up in his mind. John hadn’t been the one to pin him to a table and brand his back. He hadn’t snapped Sam’s leg with a thoughtless motion. Yet if Sam didn’t get his nervous impulses under control, John would be the one suffering from guilt, and he didn’t deserve any of it.  
  
With the room quiet and peaceful between the two flatmates, Sam dug into his notes while John prepared a fire to warm up the air, a good place for healing to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam and John have their nice and calm moments! Sam's needed this since he went through that terrible day, so now he can start to heal again.
> 
> **Next:** The Visitor, coming in the future!
> 
> Starting on June 3rd, the next part of the Brothers Apart series will begin posting!

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone enjoy a short lil story we have to break up the tension from the last few! Just Kara and Dean cutes here, nothing more to see ;)
> 
> More of Aftermath will be posted in the future, there are no set dates. We will be exploring Baker Street with these new characters, Stan will be dropping by again, and a special guest character will be visiting our boys!
> 
> Next: Future


End file.
